


Never Once Failed (Full Series in Chronological Order)

by orphan_account



Series: Never Once Failed [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU Moriarty death, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst but I won't break your heart, BAMF Sherlock, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Domestic Johnlock, Domestic Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drama, Drunk John, Drunk Sex, Drunk Sherlock, Emotional Sherlock, Establishing Johnlock, Feels, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Have I got enough tags yet, Homeless Network, Humour, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Morning Sex, Musician Sherlock, Non-Penetrative Sex, POV Alternating, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-The Hounds of Baskerville, Protective Sherlock, Romance, Sherlock Cooking, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Smut, Switch John, Switch Sherlock, The Reichenbach Fall AU, This is the problem with 45k word stories, Two Christmases in fact, Virgin Sherlock, bit of Violence, sex against the door, unestablished johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-03 14:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 48,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4104154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how I wanted things to go. This is pretty much a Reichenbach Fall AU - what would have happened if Sherlock and John had realised what their relationship really is *before* they decided to take down Moriarty.</p><p>This story takes place over about a year, and we basically drop in on what the boys are doing at various points during that year. Plenty of feels, plenty of smut, a little angst, a bit of drama, and a happy ending (if you're not Sebastian Moran or Moriarty). I won't break your heart, and hopefully I don't butcher the characters - but that's for you to judge. The tags give you a better idea of the general shenanigans they get up to during the story.</p><p>This is a compilation of my "Never Once Failed" Series - all of these chapters already exist in those stories, but this puts them all in a chronological order that is hopefully easier to read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Post Case Funk, Stage 5

12 December 2012

* * *

Sherlock was curled on the sofa, facing the wall. The snow fluttered against the window, and the fire crackled gently. John had set the radio to festive tunes, and had set a mug of tea (still steaming) on the coffee table for Sherlock. How he resented the pleasant domesticity of it all.

 

He was in the throes of 'Post Case Funk', Stage 5. John had made up the childish term - he had actually catalogued Sherlock's disintegration into complete self-destructive boredom and divided it into stages (Sherlock had been equal parts peeved and impressed when John had revealed this to him - John's skills of observation and analysis were improving).

Stage 1 was the obsessive filing of case information into the neat compartments of his mind palace. This could take hours, if the case was a 7 or above.

Stage 2 saw Sherlock narcoleptic, as the adrenaline finally ran out. He was prone to fall asleep wherever he stood, and stay there for at least 12 hours. John had become very good at keeping an eye on him in this stage, after the near-disaster where Sherlock had almost fallen into the fireplace.

Stage 3 was the experimentation - be it at the Bart's mortuary, or - to John's vexation - the kitchen table.

Stage 4 saw the violin make its entrance; discordant mayhem if the case had been below a 6, and something more melodic if the case had been satisfying.

Stage 5 was resentment at the world for its lack of creative criminals. Shorter than usual temper, venomous sarcasm and general sulking characterised this phase.

Stage 6 was where the boredom became outwardly destructive, and objects around the flat began to suffer.

Stage 7, and Sherlock reached for the cigarettes by the tens - or anything, really, he wasn't fussy - to quieten the relentless noise in his head.

 

He was beginning to consider how angry John would be if he carved a portrait of Erwin Schrödinger into the bathroom mirror when his phone rang. It was Lestrade.

"This one's right up your alley, Sherlock. In more than one way." Sherlock got up and glanced out of the window, up the blustery street. He rolled his eyes before deigning to respond.

"It's a street, Lestrade, not an alley." He ended the call and slid his phone into his pocket before clapping with glee. The mirror was spared for now.

"John! A case! Just up the street, number 202 by the looks of it. 21 ideas so far."

John emerged from his bedroom, already donning a jacket over the ridiculous red and navy jumper he kept specially for the festive season.

"Oh, good. Nice juicy serial killer for you, then?" he said, with only a hint of dry humour. "I was starting to worry for Mrs Hudson's walls if we didn't get one soon."

"No, kidnapping I think," Sherlock pulled his coat on, already halfway down the stairs. "No ambulances." He paused, frowning up at John. "I haven't damaged the walls in months!"

John feigned a chuckle.

"Oh, of course, how could I forget? _You moved on to the kitchen table last time."_

Sherlock shrugged and continued down the stairs, too excited about the case to let John's resentment bother him.

The table had been ugly anyway.


	2. Fair Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Case. Plot. Humour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: descriptions of injury as inflicted by somebody else.

12 December 2012

* * *

 

"Not  _now,_  John. I need to go to my mind palace," Sherlock sat down on the sofa, steepling his fingers in front of his face and closing his eyes.

John stared for a second in disbelief, his mouth slightly open and a frown creasing his forehead.

"Right, yeah, no problem. Or maybe," his voice rose, unable to contain his annoyance at Sherlock's sheer idiocy, "I need to clean and bandage every  _bloody_  wound that madwoman left you with!"

 

It wasn't the first time Sherlock had endured a beating from a criminal, and it was unlikely to be the last. It wasn't an experience he sought out, but on cases he did have a tendency to value data collection over his own wellbeing.

The pieces had come together 6 hours and 36 minutes ago, when he had deduced the location of the kidnapper's hideout. She had released the hostages unharmed (once she had realised she was losing the cat-and-mouse chase), but fled herself, meaning it would only be a matter of time before the Yard found her. Sherlock was fascinated by this one, and wanted to question her himself - Lestrade rarely (if ever) let Sherlock question a criminal once they had been captured.

So, the only thing for it had been to slip away under the pretence of questioning the priest again. John had raised an eyebrow, but Sherlock waved him away with his best 'I'm-smarter-than-you-and-have-important-things-to-do-so-leave-me-alone' look.

Which his body was now repaying him for, as he opened his eyes and looked up at John from his place on the sofa. He couldn't deny that the various lacerations, bruises and grazes the kidnapper bestowed upon him still stung, to say the least. This one had been particularly sadistic. Her methodology was surely elegant - she had ambushed Sherlock when he arrived at the hideout (he couldn't deny that the booby trap had been very cleverly concealed) and chained him up. She seemed resigned to the fact that the authorities would catch up with her, but was willing to play a game with Sherlock in the mean time. She would answer his questions truthfully, but he would receive a blow for every one he asked.

So naturally, Sherlock was now sporting a cut over his eyebrow, split lip and a smattering of cuts and bruises over his chest, arms and back. He considered it a relatively fair price for the information she had given him - not only names, but locations and details of the various active crime syndicates she had worked for in her 7 years as a crim-for-hire. Bits and pieces that gave him plenty of investigating to be going on with.

When Lestrade's team finally arrived (John, of course, had been the one to figure out where Sherlock had gone - only 3 hours behind Sherlock this time, his intellect was definitely getting sharper), the kidnapper gave up without a fight. Had her fun and was ready to settle down nice and quiet in prison, she said as she offered wrists to be handcuffed.

 

"No John, this cannot wait. The vast volume of data I collected tonight needs to be stored, I can only trust my short-term memory for so long."

John glowered at him for a moment, and folded his arms. Ah. That was the military stance that John employed when he was not willing to engage in Sherlock's nonsense. He looked vaguely comical, the picture of austerity all wrapped up in a big knitted jumper. Perhaps he ought to propose a compromise.

"Fifteen minutes, John. I need fifteen minutes to file the most important information. Then you can patch me up." He eyed John carefully. "Please," he added for good measure. John sighed and nodded curtly before stomping away. Good. Sherlock closed his eyes again, shut out the world, and went to his mind palace.

 


	3. A Good Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feels. Fluff.

12 December 2012

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds had passed, and Sherlock had indeed already filed the most important information away for long-term storage. He was beginning to sort through the details the kidnapper had given him about Australia's corrupt defence minister (he wondered vaguely if Mycroft knew that Britain's closest ally in the Southern Hemisphere was doing underhand deals with the Venezuelans) when he was pulled back to the real world by a sharp, burning heat over his right shoulder blade. The full pain of his injuries bloomed across his body, starting at the source of the heat, up his neck and over his chest, to his throbbing forehead, and he realised how effectively he had been suppressing his physical senses while in his mind palace. He inhaled sharply in reaction to the pain.

"Sorry, Sherlock. Disinfectant. Let me get the worst over with, and then you can return and keep filing your bloody data," The words were harsh, but John spoke without venom.

John had seen Sherlock injured many times before, but it never made the next time easier. Sherlock's mind was unbreakable - but he thought that Sherlock often forgot his body was not as invincible. The red and purple swellings that bloomed across the pale expanse of his skin and the slashes of red where the skin had been broken caused John an anguish far deeper than he cared to admit. Sherlock was a force of life, self assured to the extreme and constantly brimming with energy. It was distressing to see his physical fragility - it reminded John of how extraordinary his life with Sherlock was, and how easily it could be taken away. Sherlock so often dismissed his body as 'transport for the brain', but without the transport, there would be no brain at all, no adventures, no Sherlock Holmes for John to fret over, admire and run after (and shout at, depending on the day - well, most days, really, but that was just part of life when you lived with someone as out-of-the-ordinary as Sherlock). The thought of life without Sherlock was something he didn't want to consider.

John had cut Sherlock's shirt off without him noticing while he was in the mind palace. It was too badly damaged to be worth keeping. Sherlock stayed perfectly still while he worked. John kept the pressure to a minimum as he tended to his wounds. First cleaning and disinfecting, second applying whatever dressings were necessary, then soothing the inflamed areas with cold packs. John's cool touch leached away the pain wherever his fingers moved, and Sherlock sighed with relief when the worst of the cuts and bruises had been tended to. John was always gentle with him, no matter how stupidly the detective had managed to get himself injured. Surely, the sign of a good doctor.

When John had finished his work on Sherlock's wounds, he placed the first aid kit on the coffee table and sat on the couch next to him, his hands clasped and his head bowed, clearly exhausted. Sherlock could tell he was going to start asking questions about the case, despite his drooping eyelids. He interrupted as John opened his mouth to speak.

"Thank you. John." Sherlock spoke quietly. The sudden lump in his throat surprised him. He blinked. John looked after him and fixed his wounds all the time. Why was his chest suddenly constricting, his breaths becoming irregular?

"Sherlock?" John's voice was surprised. "You alright?"

"Yes, John, I am _perfectly alright,"_ Sherlock's voice was rough, urgent, and the surprise in John's voice turned to concern as he saw the emotion in Sherlock's eyes.

"Sherlock, what-"

"I am always alright. Because of you. Again and again, you fix me, _as you always have, since the day I met you."_ He needed John to understand what he himself had just come to realise. Sherlock didn't just enjoy John's company, his intellect (because while Sherlock frequently called him an idiot, by ordinary people's standards, he _was_ actually quite bright), his medical expertise, his awful taste in jumpers, his thrill for The Game, his seemingly infinite store of compassion - he was _dependent_ upon it. Since John had moved in to 221b two years ago, Sherlock had come to rely upon him, _and John had never once failed him._

He was _grateful_ for John Watson.

John still didn't understand. Sherlock saw the confusion in the slight crease of his brow and his slightly parted lips.

"Ah... yes, well I do try, I am a trained Doctor, you know," his tone was calculated. He was caught off-guard by Sherlock's lack of composure. "Sort of my job," he added, trying to fill the silence.

Sherlock was stung, and it took him a moment of analysis to figure out why. John had implied looking after Sherlock was his job. Work. Of course, Sherlock was not an easy man to live with, he knew that (John made _sure_ he knew that). But this sudden onrush of sentiment and gratitude he was finding himself caught up in made him feel guilty. Did John think of him as a burden? Was he only here because he was addicted to The Game, and Sherlock his dealer? _No_. Sherlock dismissed his negative emotional response.

On balance, John seemed to have a _very_ high tolerance level of Sherlock. Furthermore, when they were in Dartmoor to investigate Baskerville, they had affirmed their friendship out loud - and while Sherlock had very little experience in this area, John certainly showed a genuine concern for his wellbeing that reached beyond his physical health. So he didn't think of Sherlock as a burden, but rather, a companion (which implied sentiment). However, Sherlock's realisation of his complete dependence on John struck him as deeper than mere friendship. While he had no experience with romantic relationships, he did know that they were frequently characterised by shared interests, mutual respect, sentiment for the other, and sexual contact. So far, the dynamics between he and John definitely covered three of those four characteristics. Sherlock quickly formed a hypothesis and a method. His eyes flew open, and he had not realised they had been closed. He turned to face John.

"John, I... er..." he cleared his throat. "I apologise if what I am about to do offends or repulses you."

He barely gave John time to blink in confusion before bringing their lips together.


	4. An Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feels. Fluff. Snogging.

12 December 2012

* * *

 

John was perplexed. One minute, Sherlock had been filing away information in his mind palace, casually ignoring the battering the kidnapper had administered; the next, allowing John to tend to said battering; _and the next,_ he had seemed overcome with some sort of intense emotion - was it gratitude?

He was surely in a bizarre dream. This sort of thing didn't happen in real life - Sherlock Holmes didn't have emotional breakdowns and kiss people.

And yet here he was, doing just that. His lips had barely ghosted on John's at first - an invitation, and a tentative one at that. His eyes watched John carefully for any sign that he had overstepped the mark. When John had closed the distance between them, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

The feeling of John's lips coming to meet Sherlock's confirmed his hypothesis. There was nothing scientific about the way the sensation made his breath catch, though. He didn't understand it, but he enjoyed it anyway. He brought his hands up to hold John's face, and closed his eyes. He tasted the mint of toothpaste on his breath, and felt John's teeth bump gently against his own when he smiled.

 _Why'd I ever bother denying it?_ , John distantly wondered to himself. The only part missing from their relationship had been physical contact - they were as good as partners in every other way, but neither had ever voiced it out loud, John now realised, for the fear that the sentiment may be unrequited. And now Sherlock had been the one to test the waters. Asexual(?), emotions-are-useless, I-don't-understand-sentiment, body-is-just-transport _Sherlock_.

He decided he must definitely be in a dream, and really didn't want to wake up.

He leaned up into the kiss, and brought one hand to Sherlock's neck. This extracted a moan from Sherlock, deep and defenceless, and the sound sent a shiver down John's spine. Sherlock deepened the kiss, his full lips eager and his long fingers soft as they caressed John's face.

Sherlock was doing his best to communicate to John the depth of his emotion and gratitude without words. He kept his touch gentle as he explored John's face, the soft patch of skin in front of his ear, his jawline, with his fingertips. At the same time, his tongue tentatively touched John's bottom lip. John's reaction was electrifying. He froze as though he had been shocked, but then a moan broke through his lips, followed by his own tongue meeting with Sherlock's. His hands found their way to Sherlock's dark curls and anchored themselves there. His kiss became deep and urgent, and Sherlock found his own pulse rising, his breathing becoming ragged -

"Oh shit, I've split your lip again," John pulled away, blood smearing his own lips. "Sorry, Sherlock, come here -," and he brought a cloth up to dab tenderly at the fresh flow now beginning to run down Sherlock's chin. Sherlock tried to gather his thoughts.

"So - you didn't find that repulsive. Or offensive."

John met his gaze and chuckled.

 


	5. Daylight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domesticity. Fluff. Snogging.

12 December 2012

* * *

 

Sherlock could tell it was daylight, about 11am. The gentle beams from beyond the curtain rendered the inside of his eyelids red. He let his mind wander slowly to the pleasant warmth of his bed, and worked his face even deeper into the pillow. He didn't remember getting into bed last night. He must have fallen asleep in the lounge room when John was tending to his split lip. John must have brought him here, like he usually did when Sherlock dropped unconscious post-case.

His eyes flew open. _John_. He kissed John last night. John kissed _him_ last night.

The thought made his chest feel warm - _God, when did I turn into a schoolgirl?_ He rolled over onto his back, and was reminded of the wounds the kidnapper had left. No sharp or hot pain like last night though, just dull aches - all thanks to John's handiwork. John really did deserve more praise than he gave him. 

He rose and showered, then appraised the damage to his face and upper body. Nothing too bad, no unsightly swelling. Some purple bruises - already fading - and a few scrapes from where she had broken the skin. He would be healed completely within a week.

Throwing on his dressing gown over a clean set of pyjamas, he made for the kitchen. He was ravenous. John was sitting at the kitchen table, reading his morning paper. He looked up at the sound of Sherlock entering the room and smiled.

"Morning," he placed the paper on the table. "Yesterday's case already in the news." John offered the paper to Sherlock, who read the article. No mention of the kidnapper's colourful past - good. Lestrade knew when to keep his mouth shut to the press - if he had let slip any of the information Sherlock had bargained for last night, they would lose their head start on the various crime syndicates the kidnapper had told them about.

"Hungry?" John was already loading up the toaster and pulling out their mutually favourite jam from the fridge.

"Very."

Neither made mention of their kiss last night, but it didn't feel like they were avoiding the topic. They ate in companionable silence; John doing the crossword and Sherlock, for once in his life, actually just enjoying his breakfast. He went through five pieces of toast, a whole punnet of strawberries and several cups of tea. After an exhausting case like that one, he needed to refuel.

 

"Bombilate," Sherlock said over his tea. John glanced up at him. "Seventeen across. You've been stuck on it for ages." John smiled.

"What was it again, sorry?"

"Bombilate. To buzz or hum."

"Bombilate?"

"Yes, John, _bombilate -_  so funny?" Sherlock was the one to be perplexed now, as John dissolved in a fit of laughter.

"I don't know anybody else, Sherlock Holmes, that could say the word 'bombilate' that many times in a row and keep a straight face," he smiled at Sherlock, a sort of amused fondness in his eyes. "How are the wounds faring, by the way?"

"Much better. I do have a really excellent doctor, you know."

"Careful, that was nearly a compliment. Can I take a look?"

Sherlock got up shed his dressing gown and grey T-shirt so that John could examine him.

John didn't really need to inspect Sherlock's wounds again - he had taken proper care of them last night, and while they were numerous, no damage was severe. He _did_ need to see Sherlock bare again, though.

John allowed himself to look him over slowly, taking in the details. Sherlock was pale at the best of times, even in summer, but now in the middle of winter, his skin looked as though it could be made of alabaster, not far off matching the snow blanketing the street outside. The bruises and scrapes certainly had calmed, but still stood out shockingly against the vast pale expanse. Sherlock watched John as he cast an eye over Sherlock's physique. He was thin, but not emaciated - he knew enough (and John made sure he ate enough) to keep his body in good working order so that he could keep up with criminals. John thought of a case only last week, where the culprit had thought he could pull one on Sherlock by sneaking up behind him in a hotel foyer. John was on the mezzanine level (one of those bloody fancy places with a double staircase and everything), and only turned in time to see Sherlock disarm the bloke with ease and slam the attacker to the nearest pillar, pinning him by the throat. The murderer was lucky he was wearing a thick beanie and hood - otherwise, the impact with the marble pillar would have left him with a fractured skull. As it was, he got off with only severe concussion. In that moment, John was equal parts in awe and aroused: he had never seen Sherlock look so _powerful_. That idea conjured up certain images, but he put them aside. If whatever he and Sherlock were embarking upon together now went well, there would be plenty of time for that later.

For now though, he settled for moving on to inspect Sherlock's back, before coming round to face him again.

"Looks alright," he said, hoping his voice didn't sound as nervous as he felt. God, he was like a schoolboy trying to get up the nerves to ask a girl on a date. He was trying to think of the right thing to say, but no words were coming to mind. How the _hell_ does one proposition _Sherlock Holmes_? He tried to buy time by prattling on about Sherlock's injuries. "That one on your shoulder-blade is a bit nasty, but as long as you avoid-"

"Your pupils are dilated, John."

Ah. Well, at least Sherlock wasn't as bashful as John was.

"Your pulse increased by ten beats per minute when you started looking at my body, and your eye movements didn't seem to focus upon any wounds, but rather the general shape and musculature. I can only conclude -"

Sherlock's rapid-fire deduction was cut off as John silenced him with a kiss. Not a peck on the lips, either - a full blown snog.

He was nearly knocked off his feet by the force of John's advance, and found himself wedged between John and the kitchen bench, John's hands on his hips, holding him securely in place. That fact alone sent something - he wasn't sure what, but it was good - down his spine, and he brought his hands up to the nape of John's neck. John moaned softly, letting his tongue come out to slide between Sherlock's lips. Suddenly Sherlock was like a man trapped in the desert, finding water for the first time in days, _he needed more, he needed to drown -_

John's head was spinning as Sherlock leaned down into the kiss desperately, his tongue exploring John's own with an urgency he didn't even know the detective was capable of. He was so sensitive, so _receptive_. He tasted of jam and tea, and John couldn't resist taking Sherlock's tongue into his mouth and sucking on it, _hard._

The sensation went directly to Sherlock's groin. He couldn't hold in a dirty, open-mouthed groan that rumbled through both their chests, and his hands moved down to John's hips, pulling him closer so that John could feel exactly what he was doing to him -

They both jumped when John's phone rang, loud and abrasive, on the kitchen table. John sighed but broke the kiss.

"Hel-" his voice came out about an octave higher than it usually would have, and he had to clear his throat. "Hello? Sarah, hi. Ah. Um, yep, yeah I can do that. No problem. Sure. I'll see you soon." He hung up the phone and sighed. "That was Sarah. Dr Ellison can't come in today and she's asked if I can take his shift at 12:30... Sherlock?"

Sherlock hadn't absorbed a word John had just said. He had a dazed look on his face as though trying to figure out what just happened.

"Hmmm?" He brought his eyes up to make contact with John's and bring him back into focus. John tried again.

"I have to go into the surgery today, a colleague has just asked for me to cover their shift." Sherlock opened his mouth with an appalled look on his face and began to protest, but John closed the distance between them again, leaning up so that his mouth was an inch from where he could see Sherlock's carotid artery pulsing.

"I'll be home at 6. But in the mean time, you can think about _this._ " His fingers threaded gently into the hair at the base of Sherlock's skull and he licked a long, soft, slow line up Sherlock's throat. Then he latched on and sucked, _hard_. Sherlock made an ungodly noise (he may have been trying to speak, but all that came out was " _Gnaangh_ ") and he had to grab the bench to steady himself.  John chuckled.

"I'll see you at six."

 


	6. John's Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut. Lust-addled Sherlock speaking French.

13 December 2012

* * *

 

John's shift at the clinic was tedious. Now that he knew what was waiting for him at 221b, he couldn't stop glancing at the clock,  _willing_  it to go faster. The seemingly endless stream of mundane problems was driving him mad.

 _I think I have a rose thorn stuck in my knuckle, could you take a look Doc? Little Suzie here has been coughing and coughing ever since she ate some sauerkraut, do you think she could have an allergy? I can't sleep very well at the moment, only get about 5 hours a night._ John nearly rolled his eyes at that one. Five hours? He would  _kill_  for an average night's sleep of five hours. God, he was starting to sound like Sherlock. He remembered when he first met him, how shocked he was at Sherlock's dismissiveness of regular people. Now though, he understood. How do people get by day by day, without the thrill of the chase, without saving lives and solving mysteries? He remembered that conversation with Ella all that time ago.  _"Nothing happens to me."_  Well. Things happened to him now. His life with Sherlock was bizarre. Outrageous. Laughable. Insane. Infuriating.  _Real._  Sherlock had saved him from himself, though he may not realise it. He had taught John to live again. And now, it seemed, it was John's turn to teach Sherlock something.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was in his chair when John opened the door. Fingers steepled in front of his face, eyes closed - he was clearly in his mind palace. He had changed out of his pyjamas and into his standard outfit of dress pants and shirt; today, it was the deep purple one, sleeves rolled up to his elbows - _Christ, does he know it's my favourite shirt? Smug git probably does_. He didn't seem to hear John's entrance, which John was grateful for - he wanted to shower and rid himself of the smell of little Archie Wiggins' vomit.

When he came back downstairs (scrupulously clean), he wore a fresh pair of jeans and a new shirt, navy blue - two could play this game. He mightn't be as tall or angular as Sherlock, but he could still look bloody good if he wanted to.

Sherlock was still in his mind palace. John stood for a moment, then sat in his own chair, watching him - it was fascinating to wonder what could be going on in Sherlock's head at the moment. Was he searching through the details of yesterday's case, making links and neatly filing away valuable information while deleting the redundant? Most likely. John noticed something strange, though. His cheeks were gently flushed -  _that's unusual, it's barely warm enough in here to merit increased circulation_  - and his breathing seemed somewhat elevated above resting rate. John became concerned.

"Sherlock?"

His eyes snapped open, and now his cheeks flushed in earnest as he saw John watching him. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide.

"You alright? What was going on in there?" John gestured vaguely towards Sherlock's head, indicating his mind palace. Sherlock's eyes widened, before returning to their usual impenetrable gaze.

"Just passing the time," Sherlock's tone was deep, something very much implied in the seemingly innocent words. John felt himself flush as he realised what the detective had actually been doing in his mind palace. Sherlock was studying him, reading his reaction, and a satisfied smirk crossed his lips. There was no mistaking his intentions. It would be too easy now to lean forward, whisper into Sherlock's neck again,  _make him melt_  - but John needed to say something first. He cleared his throat.

"Look, Sherlock. Have you done this before?"

Sherlock frowned. "Done what?"

John breathed out hard through his nose. Trust the berk to make him say it out loud.

"Had sex."

"This isn't having sex, John, this is sitting in chairs looking at each other."

"Yes, but if I've been reading you right  _we're about to have sex_. And I want to know if you've done it before."

"I've never seen a need to before now."

"And you see a need now?"

Sherlock's eyes darkened.

 _"Definitely,"_  His voice was barely above a growl.

John kept his voice as even as he could despite the shiver that was trying to run down his spine. He had always suspected Sherlock was a virgin, but to have it confirmed was daunting. And Sherlock wanting to change that because of John -  _exhilarating_. But he pressed on.

"Exactly how far have you gone with someone?"

"I once kissed a secretary so that I could check her inside coat pockets for her lover's coded receipts. I've since managed to avoid such encounters. You know me well enough to know I don't bother with pursuits of the body, John, I much prefer pursuits of the mind. Well," his tone changed from that of bored indifference to a predatory growl,  _"Until now."_

And before John knew it, Sherlock's mouth was on his, he was being pulled upwards until he was standing, and  _God, Sherlock was a good kisser for all his inexperience_  - but he pulled away, bracing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, slowing him down.

"Sherlock, there is no way in hell I'm letting you whisk this away," he made eye contact with Sherlock, ensuring he was listening. "If I'm going to be your first time, I'm going to make sure you enjoy _every moment of this."_  He punctuated the sentence with a long, slow lick up Sherlock's throat, just as he had done this morning. God, that man had far too much neck to be decent.  _Then again_ , John thought wryly as Sherlock uttered a moan,  _he never has cared much about decency_. He continued to lick and suck softly at Sherlock's neck, and directed him so that his back was braced against the nearest wall. When sure that he was secure, John trailed a line of kisses up along his jawline, and finally, gently, back to Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock found himself, for once, listening to John. He allowed his heartbeat to slow, his breathing to settle, as he eased back into the kiss. He explored John's lips with his own, tasted, took note of texture and temperature. His hands mapped out John's neck, his scalp, the feel of his hair. He noted the way John let out a tiny moan when he traced a single finger down his neck -  _I'll remember that for next time_  -, and the way that sound made his own breathing hitch. Yes, John was right - this was worth remembering. And oh,  _oh_  so was the feeling of John's hands unbuttoning his shirt, letting it fall open to expose his chest. John's hands were warm as they traced softly over his ribcage, barely there, a soft tickle that that sent something directly southwards. He had had erections before, of course (he wasn't quite the machine most people thought of him), but it had always been autonomous, never in reaction to someone else's touch. The sensation was curious, a hot ache, a  _need_. He couldn't suppress a gasp when John's fingers met his nipples - he was only gently circling, but the sensation made Sherlock moan, his grip on John's hair becoming tighter. He could feel John smiling before he broke the kiss and leaned up to whisper in Sherlock's ear.

"Let me show you what you've been missing," he licked Sherlock's earlobe, before taking it into his mouth to suck at it. How could such a simple act be so electrifying? Sherlock's eyes were blown wide, his breathing heavy again. John drew away, before bringing his mouth to Sherlock's clavicles, nipping and sucking there.

It had been a good long while since John had been with a man, and he was enjoying rediscovering the experience. Sherlock didn't taste sweet, but musky and rich - whatever cologne he used was surely expensive. John noted sandalwood, and something like whiskey. His taste was delicious, and the way Sherlock's body went rigid beneath him was glorious. John turned his attention to Sherlock's nipples - they had been sensitive to his fingers, but how about his tongue? John did not anticipate the great, shuddering gasp, and then suddenly Sherlock's mouth was back on his, hot and desperate and  _God, who was he to resist now?_

John moaned up into the kiss, and Sherlock couldn't resist bringing his hands round to John's lower back, bringing him closer before he slipped his hands lower to grab John's arse, and he could feel John hard against his own erection, and that sensation of heat and lust and need, that John was desperate for him too drove him over the edge,  _God he needed to feel him closer, needed to feel skin, why did he need to feel it? It didn't make sense, he didn't understand but it didn't matter because he was undoing John's shirt, and now John's chest was against his, he could feel the hair tickling and the texture of John's scars, he wasn't kissing John any more but John was doing something, what was he doing? John was kissing his chest, his stomach, sucking and biting and licking, it made him ache and throb, oh God was John undoing his belt? Please, John, please more, I need more, se il vous plaît, de plus, vous avez la clé, John, que faites-vous pour moi? Je ai besoin -_

And as John's mouth slid over down Sherlock's cock, the detective's desperate stream of words choked off. It was the most glorious silence John had ever heard. He knew it wouldn't take much to send Sherlock over, the man was shivering with need. He kept his lips firmly around Sherlock's cock, and drew his tongue in a wet circle around the head. That was all it took. Sherlock's knees buckled, but John held his hips to the wall. The detective's back arched, his eyes wide and head thrown back, a stuttered, gutteral groan escaping his lips, his body convulsing as he came. John swallowed, riding each shudder, until Sherlock stilled. He finally loosened his hold, and let Sherlock slide down the wall.


	7. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. Smut.

13 December 2012

* * *

 

When Sherlock regained consciousness, he was in his bed again. However, this time he was not alone. John was lying next to him, a significant grin plastered across his face.

John watched Sherlock blink hazily as he wrenched himself out of post-orgasm coma. His lithe body stretched out on the bed (naked - John had just let Sherlock's clothes fall off when he had carried him to his bedroom) every muscle relaxed. John had never seen Sherlock let his defences fall away so completely. Even in the times when Sherlock passed out post-case, there was still a tenseness, some sort of alertness about him that went right down to the subconscious. Those times, he was sleeping because it was a physical imperative; a necessary evil. Now though, he was the very picture of peace. John was equal parts puzzled and elated with how Sherlock looked right in that moment. A benign smile (since when was Sherlock benign? -  _Well, since he just had his first and bloody amazing blow job, I suppose)_ settled into his features, and his hand fumbled across the sheets to find John's. When he found it, he let his eyes fall closed and a deep chuckle, genuinely warm, rumbled through his chest.

"Feeling alright?" John rubbed his thumb over the skin of Sherlock's hand.

"Mmm. Endorphins, John, this is excellent."

"You're acting positively human, you know."

"Do forgive me, I'm sure it's just a temporary glitch," Sherlock chuckled again and managed to shuffle himself higher onto the pillows. "John, that was unlike anything I've ever experienced. I don't yet have the words to describe it."

"I have a few words," John's face broke into a predatory grin, and he saw the apprehension in Sherlock's eyes. He came in close to whisper in Sherlock's ear, his hand resting on his navel.

"The way you moan when I'm at your neck -," he moved down to place a platonic kiss on Sherlock's throat, and felt the detective swallow hard,  _"- luscious."_

John came up to face-level again, and Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away from the dark pools of lust that were John's. He felt John's fingers trace, ever-so-softly, up his ribcage, and his skin prickled.

"How soft your skin is under my fingers?  _Divine."_ Sherlock felt the fingertips slide up to his left pectoral, stopping just shy of the nipple.

"The way you react when I do this?" Sherlock felt his body go rigid as John squeezed his nipple, and couldn't suppress a gasp. John glanced down to Sherlock's cock, which was already beginning to fill out again. _"Electrifying."_

Sherlock's breathing rate was rising, colour beginning to tinge his cheeks.

"Oh, and the way you tasted when you came?" John pulled Sherlock's hand to his face and sucked the detective's index finger into his mouth while his own hand travelled southwards to grasp Sherlock's cock and squeeze, and the feeling made Sherlock's head spin, it was hot and wet and slick, and  _God, he couldn't help but moan -_

John let Sherlock's finger fall out of his mouth, and returned to Sherlock's ear, his breath hot and heavy. 

 _"Really fucking delicious_. But you know what was the best? The bit I really loved most," his fingers tightened their grip, pulling Sherlock's foreskin in a way that extracted an actual, gasping, yell, "Is the way you  _begged_  for me. And I hadn't even been at you for seven minutes."

Sherlock couldn't take any more, and the temptation of a challenge was just too much to resist. He pushed John back, and rolled so that he was straddling the doctor's thighs (still clad in those jeans - he would take care of that in a moment). He leaned low, mimicking the position that John had been in just moments before.

"John," he was panting already, and could barely hold himself back. "I hope you don't mind," his right hand reached to John's jeans, and deftly popped open the button, "but I need to run an experiment," he pulled down John's jeans, and threw them aside, leaving just a pair of black pants between him and the doctor's straining erection. John's eyes flickered with concern.

"An experiment? Jesus Sherlock, now's not really the time-" but he was silenced by a single, slender finger on his lips.

"Not that kind of experiment, John. I need to test a theory. My theory," he continued, his lips against John's jawline and his voice a silken rumble, "is that I can get you begging for me to touch your cock in under  _six_  minutes. What do you think?"

John tried desperately to clear the fog that deep baritone voice left in his mind.

"Oh, God, maybe that's not such a bad idea," his fingers were already curling into Sherlock's hair, pulling him up to his mouth for a kiss. Sherlock chuckled again, his lips just brushing against John's and his pupils blown wide.

"Not yet, John. I've got some variables to test first."

He started with a kiss to John's neck, and a lick from his jawline to his earlobe. Then, he let his teeth scrape gently up the length of John's ear, and oh  _that_  got a response. John shivered at the sensation. Sherlock moved on to John's chest, kissing and sucking. John was well-muscled, and Sherlock enjoyed the gentle tickle of chest hair on his lips as he explored, worshipping with his tongue. He kissed and licked John's scars from the bullet wound, which elicited another shiver, this time accompanied by a slight moan. That sound sent even more heat to Sherlock's erection, aching for attention, but he ignored it. He had a game to win.

John's pulse was rising rapidly with every new place Sherlock explored. From his chest, the detective had moved on to his stomach, thighs, his knees, all the time ratcheting up John's arousal with his precise nips, sucks, licks. Then Sherlock had flipped him over onto his stomach, and begun kissing and licking John's lower back, his long-fingered hands pulling John's pants down and massaging and kneading his arse cheeks. The fact that Sherlock was focusing all of his being into John's pleasure was enough to make him half-giddy with lust. However, feeling the hot wetness of Sherlock's lush mouth on the top of John's arse crack was the point at which he emitted a loud, helpless whimper, his breathing rate through the roof and his hands grabbing on to the sheets in desperation.

Sherlock immediately flipped him over onto his back again and pulled back, his fingertip tracing ever-so-gently around the base of the doctor's cock. His body was suspended so that his own erection, beginning to drip with precome, was barely an inch away from John's. John's breath was so heavy he thought he may pass out and he was making some very undignified noises, but when Sherlock leaned down to bite his bottom lip and pull, he cracked.

 _"Oh God Sherlock, please, I need to feel you!"_  John's mouth was desperate on Sherlock's and he felt what he was sure was a smug smile on the detective's lips. He didn't care if he had given in, if Sherlock had won, if it meant the detective would put him out of this blessed misery. He was about ready to plunge his to tongue into Sherlock's mouth, but all of a sudden, he was straining but kissing only air.

Sherlock kneeled between John's knees, both his hands running through John's pubic hair before coming together to wrap around the base of John's cock. Thumbs upward and centre, he slid his palms up the sensitive underside in a long, languid stroke. John's eyes rolled back in his head at the relief of contact. Sherlock wrapped one delicate hand around the shaft, and leant down to run to run the tip of his nose up the length, inhaling John's scent. The smell was oh, so erotic, and the skin so soft and _God_ \- he needed to taste it. First, he just darted his tongue out to run between John's bollocks, but then he couldn't resist a long, wet, hungry lave up John's length. The sound John made was extraordinary, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. The sound flicked some kind of internal primal switch and Sherlock couldn't restrain himself any further. He placed his hands on John's hips, and swallowed him down as far as he could. It was  _glorious._  He could feel every moan, every shudder, and when John grabbed his hair and pulled tight, he couldn't help but moan lustfully around John's cock, low and dirty and hungry. He picked up his pace, forming a rhythm of sliding his mouth up and over the very tip before swallowing John deeply again and again. John was shuddering and gasping and he was surely only seconds away -

"Oh, _Jesus_ Sherlock, oh God, just wait, just wait -," and Sherlock was being pulled from John's cock up to face level again. John held Sherlock's face gently, despite his own clear lack of composure.

 _"Together_ ," John tried to settle his breathing rate before his hand took Sherlock's and guided it between their bodies. John took both their erections in hand and both men gasped at the sensation. Sherlock's hand joined John's, holding their cocks securely together. John's cock was slick and wet with Sherlock's saliva, and the feeling was just too luxurious. He finally lost control of his hips and began to thrust, the feeling of both their hands wrapped around and John's hot, slick erection sliding against his making his head spin. He found himself biting down onto John's shoulder, his eyes closed tight as their bodies moved more and more urgently together, his moans becoming higher and higher in pitch with every thrust, and John's hand was anchored in his hair like he was about to fall off the edge of the planet, and he was saying Sherlock's name over and over, like a curse - or a prayer? The sweat, the heat, the hunger, the need, that hot sweetness between their bodies that was so much pleasure and pain at the same time,  _it's too much, John, I can't -_

For the second time, Sherlock Holmes broke. He shuddered as wave after wave of release washed over him, his choked sobs mingling with John's as together they painted their stomachs with hot, slick come. He could feel John's body arching up into his, he could feel every twitch and shiver, he could feel John's fingers in his hair and John's thighs quivering on his, John's breath settling as he regained control. He could feel John's satisfied sigh as he reached for a flannel and cleaned off the mess they'd made between them, and John's arm settling back over his own shoulders. He realised he was still biting rather hard into the doctor's shoulder, and let go, instead just burying his face into John's warm, soft neck. It was comfortable, as though this crook of John's neck had been made just for him. Here he was safe.

He was taken by surprise when he was overcome by enormous, shuddering sobs, the tears spilling freely and obscuring his vision. What was this, _what's happening?_ He could hear John's concern, the worry in his voice, feel him try to pull away to look at Sherlock, but Sherlock just hung on tighter, keeping John close, his own shuddering breaths shaking through both their bodies and his tears soaking John's shoulder.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

Sherlock tried to answer several times before choking out "Good. 'S good."

He had never cried like this before. He had been beyond consolation when Redbeard had died, but this was different. His tears for Redbeard had fallen out of heartbreak. This was something else. He felt whole. He had somewhere to belong - or rather, someone to belong with. John was his doctor, his friend, his _home_.

This was dangerous territory, he knew - how many times had he said himself that love was a dangerous disadvantage? John was now his weak point and a potential target for anybody trying to manipulate Sherlock - Moriarty came immediately to mind. But if he was choosing this path, he knew that he was most likely the best equipped person in the world to deal with whatever threat may come. Vigilance was a small price to pay for John's protection. Mycroft, of course, could be made to cooperate. He already had John under protection surveillance, but Sherlock would pull some strings to ensure it was increased. It wouldn't be difficult. With this comforting thought in mind, his breathing settled to a normal rate.

John, clearly encouraged by the return to calm, tentatively tried again.

"You alright?" His fingers stroked through Sherlock's hair. It was a comforting feeling.

"Mm. Sorry. Had an epiphany."

"And what did you realise?"

"That I am capable of loving another human."

John's fingers slowed in Sherlock's hair.

"What? Sorry?" His voice was affectionately goading, but gentle. He knew it was difficult for Sherlock to express such emotions, and directed the flow of conversation to banter: a mode of communication he knew the detective was much more comfortable with. Sherlock huffed, quietly pleased that their dynamic was unaffected by this new realm of their relationship.

"You heard me perfectly, John, I'm not saying it again."

John smiled at that.

"I love you too, you berk."

He finally extricated himself from Sherlock's grasp, and came to face him, head on the pillow. The tenderness with which he held Sherlock's face was in contrast to his gruff words moments before, as was the kiss he bestowed upon his lips. When he pulled away, Sherlock held John's hand to his cheek, his eyes closed.

"Will you sleep with me tonight, John? Apparently, people enjoy sharing their beds with their lovers. I'm somewhat dubious, as your snores frequently wake me even with our usual sleeping arrangements, but I like to think I have an open mind."

John rolled his eyes in jest.

"Yeah, alright. Guess I could oblige." He rolled over to turn the lamp off, and returned to lie on his back. His hand reached out and his fingers intertwined with Sherlock's, comfortably linking the two men. He could get used to this.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."


	8. Wine's A Good Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunken Christmas Eve smut.

24 December 2012

* * *

_Wine,_ Sherlock decided,  _is definitely a good thing. Very good thing_. He tried to think of a superlative to better describe its very goodness, but his thoughts were so slow and muddled and he was a bit distracted by John's tongue on his neck, making him moan a little.  _Mm. John's a good thing, too._

John had pulled him up and steered him to the bedroom after Molly had walked in on them in the living room  _(why bother? 'S not like she's gonna come back)_  and Sherlock was now wedged between the doctor and the closed bedroom door.  _Not a bad place to be, really,_  he thought, as his hands cupped John's face and pulled him back up to his lips again.

More wine-soaked kisses, soft lips and smiles. They were slower now than they had been in the living room. Taking their time.

Lots of tongues, messy, hips sliding together a little.  _'S Nice._

Sherlock slid his hands down to John's hips and pushed him gently, trying to direct him over to the bed without breaking their kiss. At some point, though, he realised they were going entirely  _past_  the end of the bed instead of onto it, and he finally broke contact. He clambered onto it without any romantic finesse whatsoever, all limbs as though he were a lanky teenager again, and flopped onto his back. John just laughed and straddled him and kissed him again, harder now, hands in hair and pulling a little,  _oh, John, you know how I love that,_  and they were both making little noises of lust in their throats. John's hands pulled his shirt untucked, then stroked his fingers on his stomach, up to his chest as far as the shirt would allow, and back down.

Electricity. Breathing hitched, heart rate rose, blood drained southwards.

A funny thought struck Sherlock.  _This is fun._ He usually only associated the concept of fun with serial killers. _Is this normal people fun?_

The heat and need that he was beginning to grow familiar with were pooling between his legs, drawing his trousers tight. They had done this a handful of times since that first night, and Sherlock was finding that sexual encounters were indeed a very,  _very_  good thing, too. John gave him something he never even knew he needed.  _God, John, I need you, touch me, please, make me moan, stop me thinking._  He tried to say it, but the noises he was making got lost between his tongue and John's.

When Sherlock took John's hand and gently pulled it down so that he could feel his growing erection under his fingers, John moaned softly. There were so many things he wanted to do with Sherlock, he was intoxicated with the possibilities. He popped Sherlock's trouser buttons and pulled down the zipper enough to let his fingers past. His grip tightened around the taut material outlining the shape of Sherlock's cock, and Sherlock grunted into his mouth with his hands on John's neck, deepening the kiss into something hungrier.

More teeth, pulling lips and sucking tongues like a pair of horny teens.

He pulled down the pants that were in the way, and took Sherlock's length in hand. Sherlock groaned beneath him, and his hands roamed through John's hair, down his neck and chest to his hips, pulling him close, rolling against John's own erection and sending that little delicious electric tingle through John's body. Sherlock was thrusting minutely into John's hand and he mumbled something about "Lots of clothes, too many clothes," and started to fumble with his shirt buttons. His fingers kept slipping though, and eventually he gave up with a frustrated noise and just ripped it open, the buttons going everywhere as that sculpted, pale torso was stripped bare for John.

 _Jesus. Drunk Sherlock is raunchy Sherlock._ It was possibly one of the hottest things John had ever seen. He gripped Sherlock's cock tighter and began to stroke harder and faster, and the long-fingered hands that had just turned their attention to getting John's shirt undone suddenly fisted involuntarily in the material as Sherlock groaned through his teeth and his back arched.

_"Oh, John!"_

John loved how urgently Sherlock wanted him, how that brilliant mind faltered under his touch. He loved how badly  _he_  wanted Sherlock, he wasaching for him. God, he  _needed_  him, this brilliant strange creature writhing under his fingertips. He had been delighted in these last few weeks to discover that Sherlock was so much more receptive to pleasures of the body than he could have ever dared to hope, and  _God,_  knowing that it was John who did this to him, and that John was the  _only_  one to do this to him- the wine lubricated the words that might not have otherwise slid from his mouth.

"Sherlock, will you take me tonight?"

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he froze, his pupils dark and enormous. His eyebrows came together as though he was trying to understand what John had just said. John, emboldened by the alcohol, lowered himself so that he was in line with Sherlock's cock, and let his tongue dart out to lick the head.

"I want you to be inside me, Sherlock." A wet, sloppy kiss to the frenulum, and Sherlock gasped.

"I  _need_ to feel you filling me." He slid his lips over Sherlock's cock, just over the head, and back up again. He was rewarded with a noise that sounded something like  _"Nnngh!"_

 _"Please, Sherlock, please take me tonight."_  He swallowed him down as far as he could revelling in Sherlock's taste, and if John had been looking, he would have seen the detective's toes curl. He certainly felt Sherlock's hips thrust involuntarily and heard the strangled whimper that escaped his lips.

Sherlock's mind ground to a halt. A whisper of  _"John,"_  was all he could manage as he fought to regain rational thought. Oh, how he wanted this. John talking  _like that_ with his voice so rough and  _his tongue so hot and wet and soft_  was too much for him to handle. He wanted  _everything._  His body, abuzz with alcohol and  _John, need more John,_ tried to tell him yes,  _God, yes,_  but he forced himself to pause, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow, trying to let the last sane bit of his mind break through the fog. John pulled back so that he was just licking up and down Sherlock's shaft, awaiting his answer.

Despite every nerve ending in his body screaming  _yes, YES!_   at him, Sherlock managed to pant out, "N-not now, John, can't now, not tonight."

He looked down at John to see his reaction, and John was pulling the most ridiculous puppy eyes and pouting his lips at him. He snorted, the sight of John's silly expression distracting him from his mad lust for a moment, and pulled John  _(laughing, good, not upset)_  back up to kiss him. His fingers got to work and finally managed to get the doctor's shirt undone without ripping any buttons off. Quite proud of himself, really. He pulled John down to lay flush with him, chest against chest, those vast expanses of skin and muscle pressing together. He caught John's mouth with his own again before pushing up and rolling them over so that Sherlock was between John's legs. His lips found John's neck and he spoke to him between licks and nips and kisses while John's fingers entwined in his hair.

"Alcohol compromises pain perception," -a kiss- "don't want to hurt you," -a suck- "by accident." A lick right up John's jawline, causing John to moan and something hot ran down Sherlock's spine and coiled in his groin.  _"And,"_  he added, his lips at John's ear, "I want to be fully present for that particular event." He pulled back and finally, _finally_  pulled down John's jeans and pants.

"Right now I'm not much good for anything more than  _this-"_  and without further ado, he leaned down and took a long, wet lick up John's shaft, relishing the taste. He heard John say  _"Oh, God, tomorrow, then,"_  and his hands fisted in Sherlock's hair and pulled, and  _God, that feeling made him ache, John, I want you, I want everything of you._  He lapped hungrily at John's cock, far more messily than he would have otherwise, but John gasped and moaned and squirmed beneath him and  _oh, John, hearing you like that_ \- he couldn't help but reach between his own legs and take himself in hand, groaning low and dirty around John at the touch.

"Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, are you-?"

John's voice was strained with lust, and at the sight of Sherlock touching himself while his tongue was on John, he fisted his hands into the sheets to prevent himself pushing Sherlock's head down. He may be drunk, but he wasn't an arsehole.

Sherlock sucked John's length into his mouth and hummed a deep affirmation that vibrated around John's cock. The doctor's voice broke as he moaned at the sensation, and Sherlock stroked his own cock in time to his mouth on John, unable to resist thrusting into his own hand, more animal than human now,  _fuck, John, oh God, your moans, your taste, how'd I miss this for so long?_  He pulled off John for just a second; there was just one thing he needed.

_"John, pull my hair."_

John didn't need asking twice. He would've done anything Sherlock asked of him with that timbre of voice. He fisted one hand in Sherlock's curls, pulling firmly but gently, and fought the temptation to squeeze his eyes closed with pleasure, because the sight in front of him was beyond comprehension. Sherlock, with shirt hanging open and hair messy, on his hands and knees between John's legs, moaning and thrusting hard and fast into his own hand  _(is that how his hips would move if he was fucking me?)_ while he sucked John like his life depended on it, John hadn't had sex like this since he was nineteen, _Jesus, fuck, if this is how Sherlock gets when he's drunk-_

Sherlock came suddenly, sooner than he was expecting, maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was John pulling his hair but one second he was relatively close and the next second he was coming,  _oh God, he was coming_ , moaning and bucking his hips with every wave of pleasure leaving his head spinning and his come was coating his hand and  _fuck._  He managed to stop himself toppling right over, and took a second to close his eyes and pant through and regain balance. He brought the hand that was hot and slick with his own come to wrap tightly around John's cock, there was something so deliciously  _filthy_  about using his own semen to lubricate John, and the sound that John uttered would have made Sherlock hard again instantly if he hadn't just had an orgasm. All he wanted right now was to hear John make that noise over and  _over and over again, lose control, John, break for me_. He pumped John hard and fast, the obscene sound of Sherlock's fist fucking John mingling with John's cries, and then John bucked and swore and shuddered, thrusting up into Sherlock's hand as his come spurted rhythmically over his stomach with cries of  _"Oh, fuck, Sherlock, Jesus, oh God_ ,  _ohh God..."_  and then they were both panting heavily in an exhausted, satisfied sort of way. Sherlock stripped off his ruined shirt and used it to clean off his hand and John's stomach before collapsing back onto the bed next to John in a messy heap. John burst into laughter, and Sherlock couldn't help but join him.

"That - was - ridiculous." John panted out between giggles.

Sherlock smiled, remembering the first time John had said that to him.

"Yes, it was." He suddenly felt the need to kiss John's neck. So he did, although he was too exhausted and mushy ( _mushy? Since when'd I start saying 'mushy'?)_ to do it properly so it ended up being more of a sucky licky thing. John giggled again, and turned his head to kiss Sherlock properly.

"And fantastic." He ran his fingers softly through Sherlock's hair as they settled back onto the pillows.

 _"Mmm._   _Very."_  Sherlock rolled over, draping his arm over John's chest. Now that he was sated, the pull to sleep was irresistible, and he could feel himself slipping into a warm, swirling darkness.  _Not yet, no no wait, there's something I need to say._  He tried to fight the descent, but he couldn't keep his eyes open.

"John... you know... I..."

But he never made it to the end of the sentence. John just smiled and placed a kiss into Sherlock's hair, pulled the cover over them both, and made a mental note to thank Lestrade for getting Sherlock drunk the next time he saw him.


	9. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas at 221b. Fluff. Feels. Humour.

25 December 2012

* * *

 

John awoke with a start on Christmas day. At first, it was hard to tell what had roused him, as he couldn't think much past his pounding headache. However, it wasn't long before cold fingers nudged at his back again, the temperature difference making him jump.

_"John."_

He opened his eyes  _(ow, too bright)_  and rolled over to see Sherlock, flat on his back and with one hand pressing a pillow over his eyes. John wasn't the only one with a hangover, then. Sherlock reached his pillow-free hand out and prodded John again, seemingly not realising that the doctor was already awake. The cold fingers struck John's chest, and he yelped.

"Ah! Yes, I'm awake."

"Need aspirin."

John sighed and buried his head back in his own pillow.  _Berk._

"Can't you get it yourself?"

John was expecting some detailed explanation about why John was in better condition than Sherlock to go fetch the medicine (surely the detective would make something up about respective alcohol tolerance and body weight and chemistry things?), but all he got in response was a feeble "No. Please."

And when Sherlock Holmes sounds feeble, John Watson can't say no. Well, he can't say no to Sherlock most of the time anyway, but that's not the point.

John pulled himself out of bed  _(no nausea at least, that's good)_  and headed toward the kitchen to fetch the aspirin.

 

Memories of last night swam through his head. Christmas Eve drinks. Not the best occasion of the year, but Sherlock and John put up with it for Mrs Hudson's sake. This year she had invited some of her older friends, and some of the neighbours (Mrs Turner, and Lucy and Michelle - the 'married ones') around as well as Greg, Molly (John was surprised she came at all, given last year's bloody fiasco) and Sarah (John was relieved that he and Sarah had stayed on good terms after they broke up - she was still quite a good friend, actually). It was pleasant enough, as Sherlock seemed to have learnt from last year that he really ought to speak as little as possible when there were friends around that Mrs Hudson and John actually wanted to  _keep_  as friends. So he spent most of the evening either watching the street or talking to Greg (the only person he was trusted not to completely alienate - but that was more of a compliment to Greg than to Sherlock) and John chatted pleasantly and did the sort of rounds that a good host does.

 

John rummaged through the medicine cabinet to find the aspirin. He ate a few water crackers and took one himself, then popped another in a glass of water for Sherlock. On the way back to the bedroom, he stopped for the loo. He glanced at the bathroom mirror, and then did a double-take. Across one side of his neck was a deep red bruise, the intensity of which could rival the horniest of teenagers.  _Oh, God. That happened, didn't it?_

 

When everybody had left last night, John and Sherlock had sat in their chairs by the fire, each with a sizable glass of Mrs Hudson's mulled wine in hand, and Sherlock telling John (rather slurred - John had the feeling Greg may have been trying to see how drunk he could get Sherlock) about the cold case that Lestrade was going to bring him on Boxing Day. Several separate disappearances from the 90s - middle aged men who vanished after returning from business trips in other countries. Different jobs, different employers, different countries - nothing apparently connecting them.

Sherlock was funny when he was drunk. Somehow, John had always thought that the detective's extraordinary brain might be somehow resistant to the effects of alcohol, but here he was, making exaggerated faces and slurring and giggling when he forgot what he was talking about - actually  _giggling_ \- just like any other mere mortal. John tried to listen intently, but the gentle lull of alcohol in his veins led him to focus more on the excitement in Sherlock's eyes  _(what colour are they? Green? Grey? Hard to tell, nice though),_  the light playing off his cheekbones, the way his mouth (those full lips, that John had only recently discovered looked so perfect when they were around his cock) moved, and before long, he found himself straddling the detective and their tongues sliding against each other - albeit a bit more messily than usual. The fact that Sherlock didn't protest John's clear lack of attention to what he had been saying was definitely a testament to how much he had drunk. At some point, one of them had mumbled something about "bedroom" and tried to get up, but they were both unwilling to let go of each other's mouths for long enough to actually get there.

This was still new and exciting and John still couldn't quite believe that this was what they were now - they were  _partners._  'Course, everything was exactly as it had been - they went out and solved cases and ran about London and bickered over social diplomacy and who had to do the shopping this week and Sherlock was a right royal git and John was the patron saint of patience, but it was also  _more._  They shared a bed and they kissed and they did things that John had never thought they would do.

Too hungry for each other to wait to get to the bedroom, they decided to settle for the floor in the middle of the living room. Sherlock was enthusiastically sucking on John's neck and clumsily trying to unbutton John's trousers when, too late, they heard a set of footsteps just outside the door. A latch clicking, the creak of hinges, Molly Hooper's voice saying something about she forgot her scarf and just came back to grab it, and they were frozen (Sherlock's teeth still on John's throat), neither thinking fast enough, and then there was Molly and she was frozen in the doorway and looking mortified.  _Bugger._

"Oh! Sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll come back another time, um -" she managed to blurt out before turning and practically running out the door.

Sherlock's eyes stayed on the doorway where Molly had been standing, and he frowned as though thinking hard.

"That's a not-good thing, isn' it?"

Despite his mortification (that wasn't how he had envisaged coming out - it'd only been two weeks since that first surprising kiss, and he still wasn't really sure he was ready to tell people that John Not Gay Watson had kind of only been Not Gay to protect himself from the disappointment of Sherlock's disinterest), John was too addled by alcohol and lust to think about it now. He did, at least, ensure they got back to the bedroom before continuing.

 

He returned to the bedroom with a bucket, some crackers, and glass of aspirin water in hand. He placed the bucket next to Sherlock's side of the bed and gently nudged the detective.

"Merry Christmas."

"I'm not sure that it is." Sherlock didn't move except for holding out his hand.

"Eat these first, it'll stop it irritating your stomach." He waited patiently while Sherlock ate the crackers before holding out the aspirin water.

"You actually have to sit up to drink it, you know," he gently pulled the pillow away from Sherlock's face and helped him sit up. Sherlock's eyes remained squeezed shut, his brow furrowed. "And if you're going to be sick, aim for the bucket. Don't fancy cleaning up your vomit."

Sherlock took a sip of the aspirin water before replying.

"Already did before you woke up. Made it to the toilet in time." He took another sip, although this one was more of a gulp. He made a face at the taste.

"Why do people willingly do this to themselves?"

John chuckled and got back into bed again. He checked the clock - 9 am. They wouldn't need to be out of bed until midday for Mrs Hudson's Christmas lunch. When Sherlock had finished his aspirin and laid back down, John pulled him over so that the detective's back was to him. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and over his scalp - rhythmic, soothing motions. Sherlock hummed lowly, like a cat purring, and leaned a little into the touch.

"My mother used to do this. I suffered migraines as a child. This always helped."

John smiled. There were these little surprising things that had been coming out lately. Things that Sherlock would never have shared with him if they had  remained just friends and flatmates.

"What's she like, your mum?"

Sherlock didn't answer for a while. John was thinking he may have fallen back asleep, but then Sherlock shifted a little.

"Like Mrs Hudson, but fatter, and a mathematical genius."

John snorted. That was a bizarre image.

"What?" Sherlock sounded offended.

"I just can't imagine it," John chuckled. "Guess I'll have to meet her sometime. What about your father?"

"Pleasant, but completely average."

"Oh - not a rocket scientist or something, then?"

"No. He is an  _excellent_  cobbler, though." John detected a hint of humour through Sherlock's hangover-strained voice.

"And yours?"

"My parents?"

"Mm."

"Both very ordinary. They were accountants - met at university. Nothing particularly exciting, but they were good people."

"Did you get on with them?"

It was funny, hearing Sherlock ask questions like that outside the context of a case. He didn't usually give a rat's ass about anyone's familial relationships unless it pertained directly to a brutal murder.

"Yeah, they were good sorts. Mum was great. Dad was always a bit distant, but he cared."

Sherlock didn't reply, but John felt him nod minutely under his fingers. He didn't have to explain how his parents had died - he had told Sherlock about it once, years ago. It had been a long time - sixteen years, now - and John had moved on. Time heals a lot of wounds - he remembered them with only warm fondness, now, and not the aching sadness that had plagued him for so many years. Soon enough, he was drifting off to the sound of rain on the window.

 

\---

 

Despite Sherlock's supposed disdain for Christmas ("Why do people celebrate the unconfirmed birth of a human counterpart to a nonexistent delusion by spending exorbitant amounts of money on each other?"), John thought he did a pretty good impression of someone who really didn't mind the holiday at all.

Mrs Hudson loved the smartphone that they had bought her. It was Sherlock's idea - she'd been getting by on an old Nokia for years now, and being the technophile that he is, he couldn't stand for her to be without a 3G internet connection any longer. Something he apparently hadn't foreseen, though, was her insistence on taking at least twenty 'selfies' with both of them as soon as she discovered the camera function ("Ooh, Mrs Turner's lodger told me all about this, taking pictures of yourself is very popular with all the young ones! He said I can put them on the Instagram - can I get the Instagram on this phone, Sherlock?"). John was pleasantly surprised (and slightly wary) when Sherlock handed him a gift - he'd never bothered with giving John a Christmas or birthday present before. He was even more pleasantly surprised to find it was a crime novel, the most recent one by Ian Rankin.

"Wow, thanks!" He turned to Sherlock with a smile. Sherlock seemed pleased with his reaction.

"Well, you've got the rest of D.I. Rebus' adventures, so I thought you might like the most recent. I read it yesterday - it's not bad, actually."

 _"Sherlock,"_  Mrs Hudson interjected, "You're not meant to read a book you've bought as a present for someone else."

Sherlock frowned.

"Why not? I was making sure it wasn't awful."

They continued their gentle bickering while the rest of the presents were unwrapped (Mrs Hudson had bestowed a positive  _mountain_  of gifts upon both of them), and John could  _swear_ Sherlock was enjoying this little scene of domesticity. He certainly was intrigued by the book John had bought for him - a collection of (apparently) the world's hardest logic puzzles. John had seen it in Foyle's and thought it was worth a try. Might keep Sherlock entertained for an afternoon.

Mrs Hudson's roast lunch rivalled any that John had ever eaten, and left both he and Sherlock in a much better condition than they had woken up in. The same could definitely be said for her Christmas pudding, of which John probably ate far too much, but it was too good to stop until he thought he might burst. At 3, Mrs Hudson turned on the Queen's message ("Oh, _come on, Sherlock_ , it's traditional!") and made them sit in front of the telly to watch it with her. Given the excellent lunch and the generosity of her gifts, they could hardly argue (although Sherlock did try, before receiving a firm elbow to the ribs).

 

All in all, by the time Sherlock and John made their way back upstairs laden with presents and turkey sandwiches and slices of pudding to put in the fridge for tomorrow's meals, they were thoroughly full, exhausted, and content.

John flicked on the telly, stoked the fire and made some tea before sitting back down to watch the  _Doctor Who_  Christmas Special. Bit of a silly tradition, but he liked it anyway. To his surprise, Sherlock joined him.

John wasn't really paying attention to the show. His mind wandered, contemplating the bizarre turn of events his life had taken in the last few years. One of the things that he never thought he'd get back once he left the army was that real sense of family and belonging he'd had. He was wrong. Here, in this messy flat in the middle of London, he belonged - and this mad detective and their ex-exotic-dancer landlady were his family.

About halfway through the episode, Sherlock looked over at John.

"You're thinking far too loudly for someone engrossed in a tale about poorly animated snowmen with teeth."

John chuckled.

"Mm. Just thinking."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Instead of answering (there's a big difference between thinking that sort of stuff and saying it out loud), John stood, turned the telly off and took Sherlock's hand. Sherlock looked at John curiously, and let himself be led to the bedroom.

 

When Mrs Hudson came up the stairs that evening to pop some extra fruit mince pies in the fridge, she paused in the kitchen for a moment. She turned to Sherlock's room with a look of concern on her face -  _what's that noise?_  It was only when she drew closer and was about to knock on the door to check if Sherlock was alright that she realised - that sound was the whimpers not of one man, but  _two_  - and a strangled moan of  _"Oh my god, Sherlock-"_  in John's voice confirmed her realisation.  With an enormous smile plastered across her face, she tiptoed out of the flat and left them to it.


	10. This, More, Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feels. Fluff. Smut (first time anal). Lust-addled Sherlock speaking French. Top Sherlock, Bottom John.

25 December 2012

* * *

 

For the second time in as many days, Sherlock was allowing himself to be led to the bedroom. This time, at least, he wasn't significantly inebriated.

When John closed the door, he turned to Sherlock but didn't move for a moment. He just looked. And Sherlock was completely disarmed by the softness of his gaze. It was as though John had suddenly let down all walls, all defences, stripped himself of any pretence. Sherlock was an expert at reading people, a master at reading John - and the words that sprang to mind as he was watching John all fell in the general vicinity of _In Love_. Once, he would have rolled his eyes upon reading those words on somebody's face. Now, though, this was different. This was _John._ And Sherlock was sure that his own expression was radiating the very same sentiment.

The moment stretched out for an eternity, and a thousand words unravelled between them, things that they couldn't - wouldn't - say, but didn't need to.

Today had been seemingly ordinary; by anybody else's standards, that was just about how a Christmas day ran. But for Sherlock, it was the first Christmas where he had understood what other people valued in it. He had enjoyed it, enjoyed the company of John and Mrs Hudson, and enjoyed pleasing them with his gifts, and enjoyed receiving theirs. It was frivolous, yes, but he couldn't deny the sense of belonging and comfort he had felt today. He had never sought out such _human_ interactions, such kinship, and yet, here he was. He was _caring._

And Sherlock suspected that for John, this Christmas had been the first after leaving the army where he felt a similar sense of family. That was how the army worked - establish camaraderie between a group of people and they'll perform as a cohesive unit - and that sense of family was what many veterans struggled to live without once they left the armed forces. In past years, Sherlock had been less than sociable at Christmas, and John was often left to spend the day in front of the telly or visiting family to whom he was not particularly close. Today, though, Sherlock knew that they had both found something worth keeping.

They were happier when they were together.

They needed to be close.

It was obvious, and he would be a coward not to acknowledge it.

When John closed the distance between them, it was not to kiss, but to embrace. His arms wrapped around Sherlock's waist, and his head rested on Sherlock's shoulder. Hugs were not something Sherlock had ever been good at, and not something he ever thought the doctor would be particularly fond of. But somehow, here with John in the dark of this bedroom, it felt surprisingly okay.

The last two weeks had been full of unexpected discoveries, and this was just another. First, he had discovered he was capable of love - of course, he had always _cared_ about John, since the day he had killed a man to save Sherlock's life. But love? For so long, love had seemed incompatible with the cold logic he prided himself upon. But this didn't feel like a contradiction. John was the most positive influence in Sherlock's life; they complemented one another and brought out the best in each other in all aspects of being. As a team, they were a force to be reckoned with. And Sherlock wanted it to stay that way, to have John close. The second discovery had been sexual experiences. Never before had he seen the appeal of baring himself to somebody else that way. Again, John broke the rule. Sherlock found himself wanting to share things with John that never before had seemed to be of significance. He enjoyed seeing that aspect of John, too - seeing him let go, seeing him _want Sherlock_  on such a basic, carnal level, despite (or maybe because of?) everything that Sherlock was.

His arms settled around John's shoulders and let himself relax into the warm solidity of his body, feeling John's heartbeat on his own chest. The closeness was comforting, somehow. A reassurance, a mutual understanding. They stood like that for a few minutes, just breathing together.

Again, John was the first to move. His hand slid up to Sherlock's neck and pulled Sherlock's lips down to his own. It started soft and sweet, a gentle dance of lips. Sherlock loved kissing. He could tell John things he couldn't bring himself to say out loud, things he could hardly bear even to think to himself. These emotions were so foreign, so contrary to what he had always been - what _Mycroft_ had trained him to be. So he let his lips speak wordlessly, and he knew that John understood. The heat between them built slowly - a gentle brush of tongue against teeth, fingers curling into the hair at the back of Sherlock's neck, a soft suck on John's lips.

Soon enough though, John was backed up to the wall and pulling at the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, his soft moans sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. When the detective's shirt hung open, John's fingers found Sherlock's nipples and _oh!_ Sherlock shuddered and involuntarily bit into John's bottom lip, which in turn extracted a moan from John, louder now. _Oh, John, more of that._

John's fingers tickled and caressed and explored Sherlock's torso and though John was the one pressed against the wall, Sherlock was entirely at his mercy. Each touch made him shiver or moan or sigh, all these stimuli swirling into a delicious heat that radiated through his body. It was all he could do to suck John's tongue into his own mouth and pull ineffectually at the doctor's shirt. _How do you always do this to me, John?_

"Vous me faites implore choses que je ne savais que je voulais, _s'il te plait, John-"_

It was the French that undid John. He wasn't even sure that Sherlock did it on purpose, and that made it so much hotter. Hearing and feeling those sounds roll off Sherlock's tongue and into his own mouth as they kissed was as much of an aphrodisiac as he'd ever experienced. John didn't understand much French, but he wasn't so hopeless as to miss "please". He moved his lips to Sherlock's neck, and revelled in the detective's moan, the way his head fell back as he worked his way up to his ear lobe. Sherlock's fingers tightened on his back as he pressed his body closer to John's.

_"John, s'il te plait!"_

John smiled to himself, and whispered into Sherlock's jawline.

"Well, _come on, then."_

He took Sherlock's hips and pushed him gently towards the bed.

 

* * *

 

"Oh, Jesus, you don't- you don't have to- _oh!"_

Sherlock smirked - or rather, he would've if he could've. He had one lube-slicked finger deep inside John, and John's cock as far down his throat as he could swallow it. He pulled off for a moment and interrupted him.

"The more aroused you are, the less painful and more pleasurable it'll be." He curled his finger just a little, and John cried out as Sherlock found his prostate.

"Oh, _fuck!"_

Sherlock smirked and slid his lips around John's cock again. He felt John push his hair back, just a little, so he could see. _Oh, God, I've always been a show-off._ He moaned and closed his eyes, and slid a second finger into John while swirling his tongue around the head of his cock. _John, make that sound again._ He was quickly finding out that he was far more aroused by sound than sight. Porn had never much interested him, outside of basic sex education - but this? Hearing the way John's voice hitched and gasped and broke under his touch? _Ceci est exraordinare._ He had to repress physical shudders as John moaned his name. _Attendez._ John wasn't ready yet. He continued to slide his fingers inside him, scissoring them a little to open John with minimal discomfort. When John tightened his fingers in Sherlock's hair, Sherlock groaned around his cock and rocked his hips against the bed a little, _anything_ to relieve the tension.

"Oh, God, Sherlock, just take me already," John managed to laugh, seeing how desperate Sherlock was, but it turned into a cry of pleasure when the detective slid a third finger in.

"Pas encore, John."

 _Oh, God, that French again._ Sherlock's voice was all breath, strained with lust, and John was shivering with need. Sherlock had been keeping him strung taut like a wire, just under the surface, for a good five minutes now as he was opening him.

"You, _Sherlock Holmes_ , will be the death of me."

Sherlock just smirked and hummed lowly around his cock, before finally, finally, sliding his fingers out. He pressed one last kiss to John's frenulum, before moving up to kiss John again. It was hot and sweet and Sherlock did something with his tongue that made John's toes curl, and _oh, fuck, Sherlock, please-_ He fisted one hand in Sherlock's curls, just tight enough to pull how he knew Sherlock liked.

 _"Please, Sherlock."_ He pulled back to suck on Sherlock's neck.

"Aves-vous fait -ah-," he seemed to realise he was speaking the wrong language, and frowned to concentrate, "-have you done this before?"

"Yeah, once." He grabbed the lube and squirted some into his hand, before reaching down to slick Sherlock's cock liberally.

"Do you know - _ungh!_ " Sherlock lost his train of thought momentarily as John stroked him, and just thrust into John's hand instead, his head falling onto John's shoulder. "Do you know what you like?" His voice was thick with lust.

"Not really, first time was rubbish and I haven't bothered since," He huffed a laugh, which was choked off by Sherlock's fingers finding his cock.

"Slow, then?" Sherlock's eyes were nearly all pupil, and he held John's face gently. John nodded in agreement.

"Slow."

Sherlock lined himself up and pressed in gently, and the sensation of John's tight, slick heat squeezing around the head of his cock made him _whimper_ \- not a moan, but a broken, whining sound well outside of his usual vocal range. This was so far beyond anything he had experienced before. His head was spinning with the sensations of _John, oh mon Dieu, John!_

"Oh my God, _Sherlock-"_  John's fingers dug hard into his hips, and he stilled. He watched John's face, but he couldn't tell if his expression was pain or ecstasy.

"Not good?" He moved to pull out, but John's grip on his hips tightened and held him in place.

 _"Very_ good." And with those words, John pulled Sherlock down to kiss him again, soft and slow. Sherlock broke the kiss and pulled back a little, watching John's face. He wanted to see what he did to John. The doctor was flushed and panting and pupils blown wide, but the corners of his eyes were crinkled in a small smile. _Ètonnant._ John's breath was shallow and laboured below him, and their hearts beat against one other through their chests. John wanted this, needed this, _was desperate for this_ as much as he was.

And so, so slowly, he pushed in. He could feel John's muscles relaxing and stretching around him, and he couldn't help but groan lowly and squeeze his eyes closed. He could feel his hand shaking where he gripped John's shoulder - his whole body was vibrating. He could feel _everything. John, this is too much, but please, more, I need more._ John was whimpering, but his fingers tangled into Sherlock's hair and pressed into his hip and he drew his legs up higher to allow Sherlock in deeper, as deep as he could go. When he was buried to the hilt, he stopped.

 _"John."_ He didn't dare kiss John for fear that he would lose control, so he just rested their foreheads together, his eyes screwed shut. Every miniscule involuntary movement of John's hips was enough to make him groan. He had never felt so completely connected to another human being before.

"Can I - I need _\- ngh -_ to move. Is it okay?"

In answer, John just pushed his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and pulled on his arse. And the way that Sherlock snapped was _amazing._ He groaned with abandon, loud and broken into John's mouth, and his hips began to move of their own accord. He didn't thrust so much as roll into John, and the movement was gentle but deep and strong, and oh, _God,_ this was different to the last time. The last time John had done this, he was in uni and wanted to try being fucked just for the hell of it. So he got moderately pissed, went to a gay club, and went home with a bloke about double his size. It had hurt, a _lot,_ (even more so in the morning) and the guy hadn't paid any attention to John's pleasure. After that, he'd decided not to bother again. But this? _Jesus, I'll take this forever._ These sensations were so new and unfamiliar and _amazing._ It was hot and slick and the feeling of Sherlock filling him with every roll made his head spin. Sherlock's face was buried in his neck and his curls were tickling John's cheek and he was making little whimpering noises and gripping John's shoulder tight and this was more intimate than _anything_ he'd ever done before, no matter the sex of the person he'd been doing it with.

Sherlock stopped and fell silent very suddenly, his eyes flying open as though he'd realised something. John whined when he drew out, and turned to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Oi!"

"I'm not hitting your prostate." He left the _"obviously"_ implied.

 _Oh, my God._ John's eyes widened and he nearly teared up. This man, this insufferable, obnoxious bloody genius.

This gentle, attentive lover.

_Make up your bloody mind what you want to be. Or don't, and I'll want it all anyway._

Sherlock rolled John over and pulled his hips up a little, so that he could still lay his body over John's and hold him close. And when he breached John this time and hit his mark, the doctor cried out so loud that Sherlock was sure Mrs Hudson would hear. And that sound, _oh, John!_ He lost control of his hips again, and now he could feel John thrusting back up to meet him, and his hand found John's and gripped it, hard. This was so much more than he was used to, these sensations so intense, he was wired with desperate, _desperate_ need. As though reading his mind, John panted out the words Sherlock needed to hear.

"Faster, _please."_

It was no hardship for Sherlock to oblige. He reached under John's body to take his cock in hand - Sherlock could feel he was right on the edge, he could feel John's body tightening around him, and he wanted nothing more right now than for John to lose control.

"Oh, fuck, Sherlock, _Sherlock-!_ John came with the detective's name on his lips, and that was all Sherlock needed to push him over. He felt John's come coating his hand as his own was spilling into John, and John was groaning and shuddering and squeezing rhythmically around him, _oh mon Dieu, John, John!_ All he knew in those moments were the waves of intense, sweet, hot pleasure that were rocking both their bodies for far longer than any other orgasm he'd yet experienced.

After what felt like an eternity, Sherlock started to come back to his senses. He only realised his face was wet when he saw the tears fall onto John's back. This wasn't like last time, when he had been overcome by emotions and his realisation that he could love - now it was the sheer intensity of the physical sensations that was overwhelming him. He tried to get his breathing under control again, but the sobs kept rattling his frame, and he was making noises he didn't entirely have control over.

"Hey, Sherlock, hey-"

John moved his hand back to push at Sherlock's hip, encouraging him to pull out. John rolled over as soon as he was free so that he could wrap his arms around Sherlock and hold him. He let the detective cling to his chest, his body shuddering with occasional aftershocks. John could sympathise - even with his own wide and comprehensive sexual experience, he was pretty wrung out by the intensity of that orgasm, too. After a pretty much celibate life, it was no wonder that Sherlock's body reacted so strongly the sensations. John held him close and stroked his hair gently, waiting for him to recover. After a while, Sherlock's breathing turned quiet and slow again, and he stopped shivering. They lay there in silence, breathing slowly and holding each other.

"Listen, Sherlock, if that was too much, we don't have to - _mmph-"_ Sherlock pressed his palm to John's lips in an effort to shut him up. It was about all he could manage right now. His body was heavy and relaxed, and his mind was deliciously, blessedly _quiet_. Phrases like _extraordinary_ and _oh my god_ and _hnnghhf_ floated through his head. What he said, was:

"I love you."

Just a quiet three words whispered into John's chest, and not the most poetic or dramatic or profound, but some of the truest he had ever spoken.

"This thing. I want this, and more, and always."

He felt John nod under his hand, and let it drop down to John's shoulder.

John smiled. He had never expected to see Sherlock, with eyes closed and body spent, whispering sweet nothings into his chest. Except - these weren't sweet nothings. This was Sherlock making - as far as he could tell, through the exhaustion-slurred words - a commitment. Sherlock didn't make a lot of those. John thought that perhaps the prospect should have frightened him - _what the hell am I getting myself into? -_ but he signed himself over a long time ago.

Sherlock was right.

This, and more, and always.

 


	11. Paris Suits Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domesticity. Fluff. Humour. What happened to Irene Adler?

3 February 2013

* * *

 John awoke, for once, of his own accord. It was a rare luxury; when you lived with Sherlock Holmes, the man's apparent inability to stick to a normal circadian cycle was contagious. In the last week, John had been out on cases past 3 am on two separate occasions, and hadn't stayed in bed later than 6 am on any other day (on the one day he hadn't had an 8 am start at the clinic, he had been awoken by Mrs Hudson's screams when she walked in to find the kitchen table covered with trays of different coloured eyeballs). So, John enjoyed this moment of unhurried peace, stretching under the sheets.

Sherlock had already arisen, of course - he rarely stayed in bed later than 7 in the mornings, and John's watch told him it was already 9:46. He rose and donned his dressing gown, and as his mind slowly awoke, his senses came into focus. He could hear voices floating in from the living room. By the sound of it, Mycroft had dropped by for a visit. This was rarely good news, as the elder Holmes brother never stopped by 221b if unnecessary. John knew he had been in Paris for the last week, discussing national security or European relations or whatever he did in his "minor position in the British government". He wondered idly if something had happened in France that now required Sherlock's attention. John moved closer to the bedroom door to listen. He felt he couldn't be bothered dealing with Mycroft today, especially if he was in a strop about something or other. Sure enough, the tone of each brother's voice told him he was happy staying right here until Mycroft made his exit. Sherlock's voice was beyond smug, and while the bedroom door effectively muffled the words, he could tell that the detective's wit was flowing long. Mycroft wasn't furious, but definitely annoyed - nothing too dramatic or desperate then, there was probably just a case or something he was trying to get Sherlock to take. John sat back down on the bed, waiting out the conversation. Eventually, Sherlock's violin heralded Mycroft's exit; a childish but nonetheless amusing tradition that John couldn't help but chuckle at. The brothers were always on at each other - sibling rivalry at its finest - but John knew there was some level of affection (however deeply it may be buried) between them.

Knowing it was safe to venture out, he opened the bedroom door and made his way to the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, coffee in hand and still dressed in pyjamas and dressing gown.

"Mycroft drop by for a brotherly chat, then?" John set about making himself tea, and toast for two - he knew that Sherlock wouldn't have eaten, no matter how long he'd been up. He liked it when John made breakfast for him.

"Mm. He ran into an old friend of ours in Paris."

John quirked an eyebrow. "A mutual old friend of the Holmes brothers? There are a lot of things wrong with that sentence."

Sherlock smirked. "True. Irene Adler."

John froze. Hold on. Last time he had heard anything about Adler, she had been decapitated in the Middle East. Mycroft himself had told John that, and asked him to keep the fact from Sherlock. He had asked John to tell Sherlock she was safe under witness protection in America. He turned to Sherlock, puzzlement creasing his face. The git was still smirking, enjoying (as ever) being one (or several) steps ahead of John.

"Irene Adler. The Woman. She's alive?"

"Yes."

"Did you know she was alive? I mean - not in America-" There was no point in pretending that he thought Adler was in America under witness protection. His own reaction to the news that she was alive had already given him away. "Mycroft said she was dead."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I knew."

 _"How_  did you know?"

"Because I saved her."

"You - you saved her." Of course he bloody did. Only Sherlock Holmes could fool Mycroft.

"Yes, that's what I just said."

"And Mycroft didn't know?"

Sherlock looked even more smug  _(was that possible?)_  and sipped his coffee before answering. "Mycroft didn't know."

"And he saw her in Paris."

"Yes, quite by chance. Passed her on the street."

"Did he talk to her?"

"No." Sherlock put on his best imitation of Mycroft, which was scarily uncanny: "Brother dearest didn't think it prudent. She was dressed as immaculately as ever and clearly still with the assistance of a maid, I'm assured."

"So she's still...  _misbehaving_ , then?" John passed Sherlock his toast, and settled in his own armchair to eat. Sherlock shrugged, his mouth full.

"Oh come on, Sherlock, you must know, you know every other bloody thing. Has she been texting you?" He knew it was stupid, but he was bothered by the idea that Sherlock may still be in contact with her.

"No, seriously, I don't know. You and Mycroft said 'witness protection' in attempt to deceive me, but that is exactly what she planned to do after I rescued her. Not that we chatted for long," His voice had a slight edge to it that John couldn't place. He cocked his head to the side and fixed Sherlock with a questioning look.

"What?" Sherlock was defiant.

"What do you mean, you didn't chat for long?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock suddenly decided to study the wallpaper intently.

_"Sherlock."_

He sighed in a long-suffering sort of way, and grimaced. He answered without looking at John.

"She turned a gun on me as soon as I'd incapacitated her captors."

"What?" John was surprised for a second, before realising  _no, actually,_ he really _wasn't._ She had no moral compass whatsoever and would turn on a whim if it suited her purposes.

 _"She needed a disguise."_ Sherlock ground the sentence out begrudgingly and glared at John pointedly with an  _if you don't drop it I'll put another head in the fridge_ sort of look. John couldn't repress a guffaw. The thought of Sherlock stripping at gunpoint and being left naked in the desert certainly had a good deal of comedic value. Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued, trying to move past his embarrassment. John let him, although he would definitely be bringing this one up later.

"Oh, _shut up._  That was the last time I saw or heard from her. And the fact that I  _haven't_  heard from her and Mycroft's sighting confirm that she's been successful in gaining protection, although Paris is certainly not the first place I myself would go to hide."

John snorted. "Well, Paris definitely suits her to a T." He couldn't keep the slightly bitter note out of his voice. He ought to know better than to be jealous now, but the mention of Adler resurfaced memories from when he thought Sherlock was in love with her. "Why did you save her?"

Sherlock watched John closely for a few seconds before replying. "It would have been a waste, John. I know you may struggle to believe it, but I do appreciate certain qualities in other people. Just as I appreciate many qualities of yours, or Mrs Hudson's, or Molly's, or Lestrade's, I appreciate Ms Adler's intelligence and daring. When I initially thought she had actually died, I was-" he paused for a moment, trying to find the right word, "-bothered - by the loss of such a bold mind."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock, you _loved_  playing that power game with her."

"Of course. I love playing games. She was a particularly formidable opponent."

"No, but that was _more_ than just playing games." Sherlock rolled his eyes now.

"Oh  _please_  John, don't be so parochial. Not all fascination has to be romantic. May I remind you that she made it abundantly clear that she would  _have dinner_  with me at the drop of a hat, but I don't seem to remember letting  _her_  shag me into oblivion."

John blushed. Sherlock only ever spoke so crassly to make a point, so he decided to drop it.

"Yeah, alright, point taken."

"You're still jealous?"

John inhaled, held his breath for a second, and decided to let it go. He exhaled in a huff.

"No. Nope, you're right." The detective quirked a supercilious eyebrow, demanding a proper answer. John rose and took Sherlock's empty plate, and leaned down to kiss him. He'd been pleased to find out that Sherlock was surprisingly fond of kissing. He immediately felt the long-fingered hands come up to hold his face tenderly as Sherlock's lips explored his own with reverence. John pulled away after only a few moments, but he had made the point.

"Never mind shagging,  _that_  is why I'm not jealous."

He walked back into the kitchen before adding  _"Although,_  she's also not the reason that Mrs Hudson now knocks before entering." He smirked, recalling with mild mortification the recent encounter with the landlady. While she had reacted with exceptionally good humour, Mrs Hudson still couldn't sit down at the kitchen table after walking in to see the use to which John and Sherlock put it.

Sherlock made a gratified sort of noise and returned to his coffee as John did the dishes.


	12. Too Easy to Be a Pirate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst. Feels. References to a case.

7 March 2013

* * *

 

Sherlock had been playing for hours now, since before John had woken up. Thinking about the case they had just solved yesterday. John sat in his armchair, reading the papers. John was no expert in music, but he could read volumes into the notes that were pushing their way from under Sherlock's fingers. The case had been a heavy one. Triple murder - children and a father murdered by their mother. Even Sherlock was bothered.

The melody that had started sweet and hopeful turned haunting, dark, mournful. The arc of the music telling its tale. The mother's descent into mental illness. Her schizophrenia. Her husband's fear as he saw the decline but didn't know what to do. The children, scared and confused. Her final episode where she had turned the knife on the people she loved.

The case hadn't been particularly challenging to solve - only taking an hour - but this was sticking to Sherlock more resolutely than any of the ones that had taken weeks to crack. This one had _upset_ him, and this heart wrenching, beautiful music was how he dealt with it. He drew a final shimmering, cathartic note from the violin and let it resound through the flat, and his tribute to that family came to a close. He placed the violin down, watching the street. Letting it go. It helped John to let go, as well.

"Why did you stop wanting to be a pirate?"

Sherlock didn't answer for a while.

"Too easy," he said in a low voice before turning to face John, his hands slipping in to the pockets of his robe.

His face was lighter now than it had been when they had returned to the flat last night. They hadn't discussed their mutual angst about the case. They didn't need to. It was just a sick woman who had taken the lives of people she loved and lost everything in turn, through no fault of her own. John was well accustomed to lamenting the unfair in life, but the tragedy of this struck even Sherlock. He couldn't dwell on it, though. Life moves on.

"It's easy to break the rules. It's much more fun to work backwards to catch those who _are_ lazy enough to do so."

John's mouth twisted into a half-smile. Sherlock returned it.

 


	13. Could Be Dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure, filthy smut. Top Sherlock, Bottom John. Light D/s.

26 March 2013

* * *

 

John's phone chimed, indicating the arrival of a text. He was in between patients, so had a moment to read it.

_"Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. S"_

_"It's not bloody convenient, I'm at work. J"_

_"If inconvenient, come anyway. S"_

_"Bugger off, recycling old lines doesn't work. J"_

_"Could be dangerous? S"_

John rolled his eyes, and didn't deign to reply.

Half an hour later, his phone chimed again.

_"You should have been home 3 minutes ago. Where are you? S"_

_"I'm not at your beck-and-call, you know. I'm coming home in an hour, at 5pm, WHEN MY SHIFT ENDS. J"_

_"Please, John. S"_

John was suspicious now. Sherlock only ever said 'please' to manipulate, or when John was between his legs and doing a particularly fine job of taking him apart. Sometimes, he could get him to say it in three different languages. No - John pushed that image from his mind. While John was rarely able to refuse Sherlock, leaving work early on a whim was not an option.

_"I'll see you in an hour. J"_

 

* * *

 

 

John wasn't entirely sure what to expect when he got back to 221b. He thought it was most likely that Sherlock's laptop had simply run out of battery and he wanted John to fetch his own for him to use. Some things never changed. Then again, Sherlock had been without a case for 36 hours now - but when John had left for work this morning, Sherlock had still only been in Stage 3 of post-case-withdrawal, bent over his microscope and analysing different species of common roaches. Surely he hadn't burned out already?

His question was answered when he opened the door to the living room, and nearly jumped out of his skin. Sherlock was waiting, exactly one inch away from where the door swung open. Dressed in a black shirt, trousers and coat, nothing looked out of the ordinary except for his expression. His eyes were always sharp, but now the intensity of his stare burned John's skin, and the hunger in his face sent a chill down John's spine. John froze in the doorway like a rabbit in headlights.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what's going on?"

"I'm bored, John.  _I need you._ " His voice was a low growl. Sherlock moved closer, their bodies not touching but for Sherlock's hand holding the right side of John's face as his tongue traced John's left ear. "If you have the submission kink I've long suspected, now would be an  _excellent_  time to admit it." He punctuated the word 'excellent' by curling his fingers, pulling at John's cheek and digging his fingernails into the flesh. It was possessive and powerful and sexy as hell, and John fairly melted under the touch. Who  _wouldn't_  want to be touched like this by Sherlock Holmes? He moaned his assent.

"Fantastic." Sherlock pulled John forward by his shirt, moving him just clear of the path of the door so that he could slam it shut, before crowding John against it. He was at John's ear again, no part of their bodies touching, but his height and his posture made it impossible for John to move. "John, if at any point you want me to stop, you know what to say.  _Say it now._ "

John couldn't help the shiver that rolled down his spine at the command. "Vatican Cameos."

And Sherlock pulled away, leaving a good two feet of space between them. John was at first confused and upset by the loss of proximity, but he realised that Sherlock was showing John that he could be trusted. He even managed to return partly to his usual pompous tone, as though negotiating a place to meet for morning tea.

"I will not do anything that you don't want me to, and I will ensure that you are not in harm's way. If you feel unsure or unsettled about anything I'm doing, I expect you to tell me immediately. Within those guidelines, I  _will_ take you in  _any_  way that I fancy." His stare slipped back to predatory, but he remained still, waiting upon John's answer.

Initially, John had not understood Sherlock's desperation when confronted with boredom, and had dismissed it as his usual over-dramatics. They had now been living together for almost three years, though (and arguably definable as 'romantic partners' for three months of that), and John had come to understand some of what went on in Sherlock's head. Without a case or research or experimentation to keep his intellect occupied, Sherlock began to descend into madness. He tried the Sudokube for a while, but that was little challenge. He read old literature, but he knew all the classics already. He would switch on crap telly, but that would just throw him into deeper discontent. His mind jumped from one pointless, everyday, minuscule matter to another, trying to find something,  _anything to think about_ , but unable to find any purchase. His mind became so loud and unfocused that he could no longer function. Luckily, this was where John could help. Sherlock being Sherlock, he wanted to explore and learn and master everything ( _well_  - everything he deemed to be interesting). Sex was an experience that he was continually fascinated by, as it changed every time - and, conveniently for situations of ennui, produced a physiological reaction that was able to override his mental anguish, shake up his gears and reset him. Sherlock didn't need drugs to quieten his mind anymore; he had John. When he began to get desperate again after he'd gone through a few packets of cigarettes, his new technique was to turn his brilliant mind to sex (Or, John was able to catch him before he even got to the cigarettes; always a positive). If John was home, he would fairly leap upon him, and they rarely made it to the bedroom. If John was out, however, Sherlock would begin researching various techniques, positions and fetishes to experiment with when John got home. And today, it seemed, he had decided to experiment with domination and submission. Maybe their recent conversation about Irene Adler had led Sherlock down that train of thought; if it had, John reminded himself to thank her for it if he ever saw her again. John had been waiting for this day for months (since they got together, really) - he loved Sherlock when he was looking dangerous, in control, when he was the only person in the room who really had a handle on what was going on (which was most of the time, in truth). And to have that spill into their sex life, well - John had always had a lust for danger. Sherlock knew his answer, of course, but he needed to hear John say it out loud.

"Oh,  _God_ , yes."

Sherlock's mouth descended upon John's with bruising force, his tongue pushing John's lips open without waiting for invitation. John was securely trapped by Sherlock's hulking frame, unable to resist the strong hands pinning his upper arms to the door. He could pick out Sherlock's descent into desperation from the taste of his mouth. First he had tried to settle his mind with copious amounts of very strong Yorkshire Gold, then he had moved on to that hideously expensive 90% dark chocolate (Sherlock usually had a sweet tooth, but when he got desperate his need for highly concentrated theobromine, tryptophan and phenethylamine trumped his love of sugar). Then, finally, he had cracked and given in to the deep, bitter taste of tobacco smoke. And while John didn't approve of the habit (and Sherlock had been doing so well of late),  _God, that taste was sexy._  He moaned softly up into Sherlock's mouth, and let him invade further in, desperate for Sherlock to take whatever he needed from him.

Sherlock groaned, deep and filthy, and he knew the guttural sound went straight to John's cock. He brought his hand up to hold John's face - not gently, as he usually did, but a rough grasp that held John's jaw open exactly how he wanted it - allowing his tongue to roam freely. He started by licking across John's front teeth, before slipping his tongue behind, to tickle the roof of John's mouth. John reacted reflexively to the sensation, gasping, his own tongue colliding with Sherlock's as it tried to relieve the itch. Sherlock caught it in his teeth, his eyes snapping open and boring into John's. He jerked his eyebrow, silently reminding John that he was not the one in control here. John closed his eyes with a moan, relenting, and Sherlock released his tongue. He resumed his exploration of John's mouth, and now John fought his compulsion to relieve the maddening tickle that was being left behind Sherlock's tongue. He let the sensation build, and in turn it built his arousal, he was desperate,  _desperate_  for Sherlock to let him scratch the itch, his eyes were nearly watering with the effort and he couldn't help as the involuntarily shivers rolled through his body and  _God, it was hot_. Sherlock really bloody knew what he was doing.

Finally, Sherlock withdrew his own mouth with a smirk, but slipped his fingers between John's lips, his index finger softly stroking John's soft palate, back and forth with feather-light pressure. John was visibly twitching now, his eyes closed tight, soft little moans escaping his lips and his breathing shallow; the unrelenting teasing must be driving him mad. He returned his lips to John's ear.  _"Very good,_  John, I'm impressed," his voice was as close to a purr as he'd ever let it be. "You've earnt a reprieve. You can scratch now, but one condition: you have to use my fingers."

John obliged, and quickly realised what Sherlock had been setting up: the easiest way for John to relieve the itch that was driving him mad was to suck hard on Sherlock's fingers as though giving a blow job - something Sherlock had always found incredibly erotic. Sure enough, as soon as John began sucking, Sherlock let out a noise halfway between a desperate sigh and a dirty moan, and he felt Sherlock's hips collide with his, the detective having closed the final distance between their bodies with a good deal of force. As the infuriating itch in his mouth was finally leached away, the throbbing heat in his cock didn't fade, a fact not helped by the sensation of Sherlock's teeth on his neck.

Sherlock withdrew his fingers, but didn't relent his hold on John's neck, sucking and scraping with a force that nearly broke the skin. John gasped and shuddered, the action pulling his skin underneath Sherlock's teeth. As the detective pulled away, a dark bruise was already beginning to purple. Perfect.

"John, do you know what I just wrote into your flesh with my teeth?" His voice was a lust-filled growl now, any pretence of restraint abandoned. He rolled his hips against John's, causing them both to groan with pleasure. John was unable to form words, and all he could do was whimper and hope it was enough of a reply for Sherlock. It wasn't. He felt a long-fingered hand encircle the base of his throat, just tight enough to send a shiver down his spine and make his already erratic breathing hitch.

_"Answer me."_

John had never heard him snarl like that. It wasn't loud, but animalistic and filthy and savage nonetheless. In any other circumstances, he would be frightened by this tone of voice. Now, however, when Sherlock's breath was hot in his ear, his hand around his throat, his cock pressing against his own through their trousers, the fear just made him  _crave more_.

_"I'm yours, Sherlock, you - you left a sign for everyone to see and they'll know I'm yours."_

"Precisely." Sherlock rewarded him with another luscious roll of the hips, enough to feel good but not nearly enough friction. John couldn't stop the moan that slipped out of him. God, they were both still fully clothed, how had Sherlock reduced him to this hopeless mess of need already? In one movement, Sherlock had John's trousers and pants round his feet. John's cock bobbed between them, red and throbbing and naked. Barely five seconds passed before Sherlock's joined it, so close but not yet touching. Sherlock's hand was on John's shoulder, pushing downwards.

 _"Kneel."_  John dropped to his knees before he even thought about it. His hands came up to hold Sherlock's hips (God, those hips, all sharp angles and ridges), ready to take him in his mouth, but Sherlock grabbed his hair.  _"Did I say you could use your hands?"_  A shiver ran down John's neck. "Hands behind your back, Doctor Watson. You're going to take me with only your mouth.  _I want you to gag on me."_  Sherlock once again trapped him, the detective's forearms bracing himself against the door. His coat swung down, surrounding John, blocking out the rest of the flat from his view, and all there was in the world was Sherlock's cock, red against all that pale skin and straining and begging to be taken, he needed to give Sherlock everything, he needed to feel him shudder and moan with that luscious mouth and lose control -

Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head as John accepted his length without hesitation. He groaned, a long, broken sound, and didn't resist the urge to push further into John's throat. He felt John moan around him, and thrust forward again, resting his own forehead against the door. He picked up a rhythm, fucking John's mouth just fast enough to make his legs shake but not enough to lose control just yet - but then John started doing that  _thing_  with his tongue, swishing it back and forth against the head every time Sherlock withdrew, and  _God, he was gone, restraint be damned -_

_"Oh, mein Geliebter, du kennst mich zu gut, mmpfh - qij, unë nuk mund të, unë duhet - argh! - John, per favore, per favore, smettere, ho bisogno di -"_

And he placed a hand on John's head, keeping him in place as he pulled out. He couldn't finish yet, not yet, he still had work to do. He pulled John up to standing and kissed him again, dirty and desperate, tasting himself in John's mouth, and let their erections meet, Sherlock's slick with John's saliva and John gasped, reaching to hold them together and thrust against Sherlock, but Sherlock beat him to it - before John could touch either of their lengths, Sherlock had swept John's legs from beneath him and was pinning him to the door. Instinctively, John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's hips, leaving him open and exposed. Sherlock paused for a moment, rummaging in the pocket of his coat before pulling out a small bottle of lube. A moment of confusion flickered across John's mind -  _did he keep that with him all the time?_ \- but the thought was effectively silenced when he felt Sherlock's fingertip running up between his arse cheeks, slick and delicious. He whimpered, wordlessly begging for more, but Sherlock just gently pressed his finger to John's entrance, and his mouth found the other side of John's jawline, sucking and pulling the flesh with his teeth, marking him as his own again. He rarely found himself so possessive, but knowing that John would wear these marks for days, maybe more, and all the ordinary people that saw him, all the patients that flirted with him, all the goldfish that didn't matter, would know that he was Sherlock's. That he was off the market. That he had begged Sherlock to take him until he had fucked him silly right here, right against this door. John was trying to press himself into his finger, but he wanted to hear John beg more - nothing went to his cock more than John's desperate pleas.

"What do you want, John? Do you want my fingers? Do you want me to open you up and take you?"

"Sherlock, please - please, please take me -  _ohh!_ "

Sherlock slid a finger into John, and then a second, widening him as gently as he could. John's face was tense, his jaw straining and his eyes squeezed shut, but his head was thrown back in relief.

"Do you want more?"

"Everything, Sherlock, please -"

"Mmm, not yet. Talk to me, John. Tell me what you want.  _Use those big boy words."_  He punctuated the last sentence by slipping in a third finger and twisting  _just so_  to hit John's prostate. John's convulsion rattled the door, his head slamming back against it.  _"Oh, fuck!"_ John took a second to pant through, trying to clear his mind enough to tell Sherlock what he needed, but the sensation of Sherlock slowly fucking him with his fingers, burning and stretching and slick, was all he could think about. "I need - Jesus - I need you to take me here, take all of me, Sherlock -  _ungff_  - and push me up against the door and make me take all of you -  _argh!_  - and fuck me until I scream -  _Ohh, Jesus, just like that_  - and Mrs Hudson won't even be able to pretend she didn't hear, and if I go out onto the street or shopping or to work or we go out on a case  _everyone will know you've been fucking me senseless, Oh God, Sherlock, please, I need you, please just take what you need!"_

Sherlock could no longer hold back. He withdrew his fingers entirely, coated himself with lube as quickly as possible, an slid steadily home. Both he and John groaned at the feeling of John's muscles giving way for Sherlock, until Sherlock was buried to the hilt in John and that tight, hot, sweet, wetness around him concentrated to a single point and everything else faded away. His knees nearly buckled. His face met John's neck again, not to cause damage, but just to nestle against him, his own hot breath kissing the angry red marks he had left before. John's arms had wrapped around his shoulders, holding him in a tight embrace. Sherlock withdrew, levering John by his hips, and let him fall back again, his eyes rolling back and his head thrown back in ecstasy. He picked up his pace, each thrust rattling the door and rattling John's bones, John's hands in his hair pulling tighter and tighter, John's curses and begging intermingled with his own primal grunts and  _fuck_. He felt himself getting close, his desperation coiling deep and low and ready to burst, and his hand found John's cock and squeezed and began roughly palming him, and John was shuddering and sobbing and  _begging, pleading_  and he fucked John with his hand in time to his own thrusts, faster and harder and he'd never had John like this before and his own grunts were becoming snarls of lust, and suddenly John was shaking and shuddering and squeezing his arsehole around Sherlock's cock and the feeling of hot, slick ejaculate coating his hand turned his world white. He thrust even deeper than before as he came, riding his release in waves as long, wordless moans pushed their way out of him in time with his come. John was still pulsing around him, and the sensation dragged his orgasm out even further than usual, until his face was buried in John's chest and he was gasping for breath and trying desperately to stay standing. He found balance and withdrew from John slowly, eliciting one final oversensitive gasp from each of them. Placing John's feet back on the floor, he fought the need to let his legs crumple, and shed his coat and shirt before stripping off John's own shirt. This is what he needed now. To embrace John, to feel his chest and shoulders and back bare against his own body, to feel their hearts slow again together.

"Sherlock," John's voice was shaky and he was still panting. "I think - I need to lie down. Standing is a bit not good right now."

Sherlock chuckled. "Mm. Know what you mean. Can you walk?"

Together, they hobbled (there was no elegant way to describe it) their way to Sherlock's bedroom and collapsed on the bed.

Sherlock reached over to his nightstand and plucked a cigarette from the open packet. The lighter flared and he took a long, lazy draw, his face the very picture of bliss. He exhaled, blowing the smoke up in a pillar, and John chuckled. Sherlock's eyes flicked up to John's. "Oh - do you mind?" He indicated the cigarette perched slackly between his fingers. John's hand groped for the nearest part of Sherlock, and landed on his shoulder. "No, no - you just look so perfectly debauched," he smiled in his post-orgasm haze. "It suits you."

Sherlock chuckled. "Suits you, too. Your neck looks nothing short of glorious."

"Although, you know, you're actually meant to ask  _before_  you start blowing smoke all over the room. But I'm too thoroughly fucked, so I'll have to reprimand you later."

Sherlock smirked as he rolled towards John and planted a kiss on his forehead. "Oh, my dear doctor,  _I do look forward to it."_


	14. Happy Birthday, John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy fluff. London. Angelo's.

31 March 2013

* * *

 

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, causing John to collide with the back of him. Sherlock had pulled him out of bed before sunrise, saying he'd received an interesting cold-case from Lestrade. They had been running about London all day, retracing the steps of the victim the day before he was stabbed. It was now half-past six, the sun was getting low, and John was hungry and on edge, having only grabbed a sandwich for lunch. They were on the way to see one of Sherlock's homeless network in Trafalgar Square, and John was hoping they would finally be able to return home afterwards. Sherlock did have a habit of stopping in his tracks when an important thought occurred to him, but the fact that Sherlock had chosen to stop so suddenly on a blustery, bloody _freezing_ street did nothing to soothe John's temper, as the people around them made frustrated noises at the interruption of traffic flow on the narrow footpath. John grabbed Sherlock and pulled him over to the side of the path, as out of the way of the other pedestrians as possible.

"Sherlock, you can't just stop in the middle of the path when there are other people walking around you. What have you realised?" Sherlock looked at him seriously, his mind clearly racing.

"We need to go to Angelo's. One of his waitresses may be in danger." And without further explanation, he swept off again, leaving John in his wake.

Fortunately, the walk had only taken ten minutes and soon they were within sight of Angelo's. John hoped that whatever Sherlock needed to do here might take a little while so he could grab something to eat in the mean time. Angelo had been delighted when John had stopped protesting his use of the term 'date' and the candles he insisted on placing on the table whenever he and Sherlock visited. It was the closest thing to 'romantic' that Sherlock and he ever did together, so John thought he may as well let Angelo have his fun.

Sherlock swept through the door, and John was surprised when the detective turned around and held it open for John to walk through, like a butler would. Usually when Sherlock was so completely focused upon a case as he was now, any socially acceptable niceties went out the door. He was further confused by the smug smile Sherlock gave him (now he was suspicious - _what have I missed?_ ), before he followed the detective's pointed glance to one of the corner tables.

He was shocked to see that Mrs Hudson, Greg, Mike Stamford, Sarah, Molly - even _Harry_ \- were all sitting and chatting around a table, with two seats to spare. Mrs Hudson caught sight of him and alerted the others, who turned around and raised their glasses merrily. "Happy birthday, John!"

John turned to Sherlock, his mouth slightly open in surprise. "What - did - did _you_ do this?"

Sherlock's smug smile was still there. "No need to sound so incredulous, John, I _am_ capable of remembering birthdays if I _want_ to."

"But - this - a _surprise dinner - with people?_ What about the case?" John was smiling now, rather touched that Sherlock would organise something like this for him, despite how unappealing the detective himself found such social gatherings.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, John, _please_ , _there was no case._ I just wanted to make sure you worked up an appetite, Angelo said he's pulling out all the stops." He smirked again at the indignation on John's face.

"You dragged me about London all bloody day _to make sure I was hungry?"_ He was tempted to be annoyed, but he chuckled instead - it was such a _Sherlock_ thing to do.

"Yes, well, I _am_ sitting through a social event for a whole evening, so I feel like it's a fair trade-off." He winked as he pulled his gloves off. "Go sit down, I've just got to have a word with Angelo." He turned away, before catching himself and flashing John a genuinely warm smile. "Oh - and happy birthday, John."

 

 


	15. Of Pools and Bombs/5:17am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst/Drama. Feels. Fluff. Moriarty. Domesticity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of this chapter is a dream. That's why it's written a little oddly. Stay with me here.

5 May 2013

* * *

 

"Sherlock, run!"

John was standing aside, then he was around Moriarty's neck. Shit-  _no. Caring doesn't help, caring doesn't solve the case. What case? This isn't a case, this is John strapped up in explosives. No. This is a game. Moriarty can't win. I must win. I always win. What could Moriarty do to me? Moriarty could kill me, obvious choice. Stay focused, stay cold._

"I will burn you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

"I've been reliably informed I don't have one."

"We both know that's not quite true."

His urge was to glance at John - _no, too telling._

 **_You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson_ ** _._

He caught his body before it could betray him entirely, turned the movement into a blink. In that millisecond, he realised.

**_Sherlock, run!_ **

He was Moriarty's equal, but he was not like him. Oh, Mycroft would be so disappointed - and not to mention, smug. He always told Sherlock - "Don't be smart, Sherlock, I'm the smart one." Well, maybe he was right. Mycroft kept everyone at a distance, never allowed attachment to form. And here was Sherlock, with a companion. Moriarty didn't have companions.

**_That's what people DO!_ **

There was someone whose life he had a vested interest in continuing. He could be manipulated.

**_I will burn the heart out of you._ **

He had a weakness.

Moriarty was gone.

**_No, you won't!_ **

Jacket was gone. _Words not. Happening. Shit. Not good._

**_Jim, from the hospital?_ **

**_Sherlock, run!_ **

"Are you okay?" _John. No, John, I have a weakness. I have a friend._

**_We both know that's not quite true._ **

"Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine."

**_You just can't._ **

"That, uh, thing, that you did, you offered to do, that was - erm - good." _Shit. Still not words happening. Too much adrenaline._

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk."

**_That's what people DO!_ **

_No. Funny. Can do funny._

"People do little else."

**_That's what people DO!_ **

**_I will burn you._ **

**_That's what people DO!_ **

**_Daddy's had enough now._ **

**_No, you won't!_ **

**_You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson._ **

**_That's what people DO!_ **

 

 Enough.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock wrenched himself into reality. The eerie blue glow of the pool dissolved into the dark bedroom. 5:17 am. He rarely dreamt, and even more rarely did he dream of real life. This, though, this dream of the pool and Moriarty and John and bombs, had increased in frequency in the last few months since he and John had affirmed their existence as partners. Distressingly vivid, the memories intensified and warped.

His body in the dream had been cold, but now the sheets were damp with perspiration. Moriarty's voice was still bouncing around in his head as he rolled over to face John's back. They never slept with bodies entangled; after thirty-seven years of solitude in bed, Sherlock found the embrace of another body overbearing and suffocating when he was trying to sleep. Usually, just a tender thread of touch kept them in contact - ankles resting together, fingers brushing an arm. Reassuring each man of the other's presence but allowing both a restful night's sleep. Now, though, Sherlock needed an anchor. His left hand snaked between John's arm and his ribs, and settled on his chest. No explosives. Just skin and hair and muscle, tense from carrying too many bags of shopping home eleven hours ago. A pulse thudding lightly underneath his index finger where it rested in the dip just above John's right clavicle. Life. His right hand slipped under the pillow, supporting his own head more comfortably. He breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of John's skin. He kept his eyes open. Moriarty's deranged features were still burning his retinas, like they had when he was drugged in Dewer's Hollow. _No. Here is safe. John's safe. The fight continues._

Sherlock and Mycroft already knew so much about Moriarty's web. There was more, but they were close. Without realising it at the time, the kidnapper that Sherlock had captured in December had given them more information on Moriarty's network than she even knew existed. Every crime syndicate she had given Sherlock information on was part of the web, and through them, Sherlock and Mycroft had been able to trace almost all of Moriarty's operatives. Moriarty would come, but they would be ready for him.

Sherlock may have a weakness that Moriarty would try to exploit, but Mycroft was cold and capable and unyielding. Mycroft wanted to crack Moriarty's network, so he would. Of course, Sherlock was assisting him (the first time Sherlock had ever deigned to be in Mycroft's charge - there were some things worth losing a little pride over). It had been decided that John must not play any role in this particular operation, so while Sherlock was not keeping him in the dark about he and Mycroft's plan, he let John know no more information than necessary. John trusted him, so he took Sherlock's advice and carried on as per usual.  Sherlock himself was keeping a low profile, taking smaller cases (dull but necessary), staying under the radar. It was imperative that Moriarty didn't think Sherlock was getting too ambitious and nosy again. His homeless network, however, were on constant high alert, and receiving larger back-scratches than ever.

This was no chase; this was prowling through a minefield. Every movement calculated, assessed for risk. Vigilance was key, and speed the price of safety. If Moriarty suspected what the Holmes brothers were doing, this would end very badly, very quickly. Sometimes weeks would pass without news from Mycroft or the homeless network. Sherlock occupied himself with everyday life at Baker Street, resisted the urge to let this sluggish cold war against Moriarty become all-consuming. He knew where every one of Moriarty's British-based assassins, smugglers, dealers, assistants and clients lived, worked, and ate. He knew their patterns, he knew when Moriarty contacted them, he knew what he asked them to do. He knew each of their pressure points and he knew how Moriarty was making them dance. Two can play this game.

He and Mycroft's database was growing. Once they had located and profiled all of his operatives, all it would take was for Mycroft to pull one thread in that vast, delicate web and it would all unravel. Moriarty kept his people quiet by blackmail and threats. Mycroft could offer ultimate protection. Witnesses would come forward, the legal case against Moriarty would build. Of course, Moriarty would then target the judges and jury, but Mycroft was ready for that. They would be untouchable. Moriarty was only so powerful because of his vast network - but without a network, he was nothing. That was his problem - there was only one James Moriarty, but there were two Holmes brothers.

When Moriarty was jailed, his death in prison from a 'heart attack' would barely make the papers. Having the British Government _and_ Secret Service for a brother undeniably had its perks. The thought of Moriarty's ultimate demise calmed Sherlock immeasurably. Of course, it was a shame to lose a mind as brilliant as Moriarty's. But nobody, _nobody_ strapped John Watson up in Semtex and lived. It simply wasn't acceptable.

He pulled John closer, and his lips brushed over the soft skin of a shoulder. John murmured something vague about "'S half a tin o' beans in the fridge if you're gettin' up," and Sherlock allowed himself a smile. Oh, John. So placid. It was somewhat bizarre, this relationship. Having never given himself to someone before John, he wasn't sure exactly what it was meant to be like. His parents were the only example of romance he had ever had enough prolonged exposure to, to be able to analyse in-depth. Their relationship mirrored John and Sherlock's in some ways, and vastly differed in others. In 221B there were no grand declarations of love and devotion, there were no pet names (what a repugnant concept). They went out to dinner a few times a week, but they had been doing that since they had moved in to Baker Street anyway. They enjoyed each other's company and bodies. There were occasional absent-minded touches, reassuring and comforting. There were volcanic, animalistic encounters where lust drove away all humanity. There were tender caresses of worship as they made love in the sanctuary of this bed. Public displays of affection were limited; especially with Moriarty constantly hovering on the edge of Sherlock's consciousness, he avoided any physical contact that could advertise their relationship openly and make John more of a target.

Overarchingly, there was a simple understanding of unwavering companionship, loyalty and symbiosis. They were not some disparate entity now that they had affirmed themselves as partners; they were just John and Sherlock. John kept him anchored in the real world, where beans on toast were eaten for breakfast and lovers shared beds and bodies and conversation. And Sherlock kept John anchored in The Game, the constant battle against chaos and criminals, saving lives and solving mysteries and the thrill of the chase. It was a balance between the ordinary and the extraordinary. Sherlock used to think that nobody else had something of worth to offer him, and that he himself certainly had nothing resembling companionship that anybody else would want. That was John's mystery.

"Can I use the microwave for beans?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Can I heat the beans in the microwave or do I have to do proper cooking things?"

John huffed out a sleepy laugh. The selectivity of Sherlock's memory was always a source of amusement for him. "Yeah, you can microwave them. Take them out the tin and put them in a bowl, though, or it'll blow up. A minute on 'high' should do it."

Sherlock pressed his lips to the shoulder again and rose from the bed. Pulling on his dressing gown, he went to the kitchen to attempt to make breakfast. He spent a few minutes just standing next to the table, looking at the array of appliances. _Toast bread, butter toast, heat beans, put beans on toast, make coffee, dismantle international crime network._

Simple enough.


	16. Of Bees and Cottages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelsy fluff. Humour.

23 May 2013

* * *

 

"Why?"

Sherlock rolled over in bed with a soft groan, looking thoroughly debauched. Which he had every right to be, having just had three orgasms in the space of an hour. John was surprised he could move at all, really. His hair was messy, his were lips red and swollen from kissing (and far _less_ innocent activities), and fingertip bruises were smattered over his hips and buttocks. Before embarking upon a proper relationship with Sherlock, John would never have imagined the enthusiasm with which Sherlock would take to sex - but he should have seen it coming, he supposed. Sherlock never did things in half measures, and sex was no different. He liked being able to switch off his mind and let his body take control - this morning had been testament to that fact. The detective still had that slightly dazed look on his face. John would have found the sight irresistible, had he not _also_ been completely spent. He was standing at the dresser, picking some clothes out for the day. His legs were still a bit wobbly.

"Why what?" Sherlock's voice was still breathy.

"Why the bee?" His head jerked toward the framed picture hanging on the wall to his left.

"I like bees," Sherlock's words were unhurried as he continued to catch his breath. "Their colonies are nice. Elegant structure. Complex, but very-" a yawn interrupted his sentence, "-ordered. _And_ they make honey."

John chuckled.

"What?" Sherlock sounded affronted.

"You just used the word 'nice' as an adjective."

Sherlock's offended features relaxed again, unperturbed. "Oh. Yes, well. I think it'll be a while until my full vocabulary returns." He smirked.

"You could keep bees. You know, have your own hives." The thought of Sherlock doing something so ordinary as beekeeping was a bit bizarre, but it might be another source of distraction when Sherlock was suffering post-case-boredom; and John never turned his nose up at those.

"Mm. Not practical here in Baker Street." Sherlock turned his voice melodramatically wistful. "Maybe when my body is too old and frail to chase after criminals and I leave my darling London to find a cottage in the country."

John laughed. "So that's your plan, then? Cottage in the country?"

"Problem?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"No, no - I guess I just didn't know what to expect. I suppose I never imagine you growing old... Dorset, Devon, that sort of thing?"

"Mm, thinking more Sussex. Couldn't bear to be _too_ far away from London. And neither could you." Sherlock smirked at him, a warmth in his eyes.

John suddenly felt a bit of a lump rise in his throat and tears well in his eyes. He looked away, pretending to choose another shirt. Sherlock would notice, though. Of course he'd bloody notice.

"What's wrong?"

John tried to make his voice sound nonchalant.

"Eh? Nothing, I'm fine." He managed to blink back most of the tears and clear his throat whilst rummaging through the dresser.

"No you're not, something's wrong. I'm not even going to bother listing the six deductions that tell me you're not fine, because you know exactly what they are." The springs of the bed creaked as Sherlock heaved himself up to sitting.

 _Six? Am I really behaving oddly in six different ways?_ John let out an exasperated sigh and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Look, Sherlock, I actually _am_ fine."

Sherlock just raised a contemptuous eyebrow.

 _Oh, for God's sake._ He huffed a breath out his nose.

"Really, it's nothing-"

_"John."_

He turned at met Sherlock's gaze again, and something in him gave way a little. Sherlock looked genuinely concerned. He took a deep breath, determined not to let his voice crack.

"I guess it's just... You assume I'll still be with you when you're old and frail and keeping bees in the country."

Sherlock blinked, and John saw that lost child he'd been at the pool when he thought that John had betrayed him.

"You won't?"

 _Oh, shit._ He realised how what he just said must have sounded.

"No! No - wait - as in, yes!" He paused for a second, trying to get his words straight before shaking his head and smiling. "Of course I'll be there with you, you daft bastard," he reached over to take Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock blinked a few times, frowning, and his eyes met John's again. Cautious.

"So you _do_ want to spend our lives in partnership."

"Yes."

"And you think that me assuming that we will spend the rest of our lives together is a - good? - thing?"

_"Yes."_

Sherlock frowned again.

"So what's the problem?"

 _"There is no problem,"_ John laughed. Sherlock still looked confused, so he tried again. "I think it's just nice to realise I'm not the only one that's in this for the long haul."

Sherlock still looked a little doubtful.

"Oh. So your emotional response-," he gestured towards John's eyes, which were still a little wet, "-wasn't negative." He paused, as though thinking hard about something before he spoke again.

"Sentiment?"

John fought the impulse to roll his eyes. Sometimes Sherlock still used his _supposed_ emotional ineptitude (after six months in a proper relationship with Sherlock, John had no doubt that the detective was perfectly capable of both feeling _and_ recognising a wide range of emotions) as a guise for seeking reassurance. He bloody well knew what had made John cry, he just wanted him to say it out loud. It was endearing, really, John thought - that he cared enough to want to be reassured of John's commitment. John laughed and punched him in the arm before replying with a smile.

"Sentiment."


	17. Golden Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy smut. Mycroft feels (separate to the fluffy smut...)

9 June 2013

* * *

John loved these golden moments of half-consciousness. London's poor excuse for a summer day (lukewarm at best, with a gentle smattering of rain on the window) was still dawning. Warm bed around him. Warm Sherlock behind him and inside him. Languid bodies moving together without rhythm.

In these moments, John could be forgiven for thinking he was with an ordinary person. The tongue that had shred so many egos now lapped messy kisses at the back of his neck. The brilliant mind that solved murders and mysteries was silent, letting the flesh take control, seeking contact and love and release all at once. The fingers that drew such extraordinary music from his violin roamed gently over John's chest, caressed his stomach, squeezed his hips, until they found his cock and began stroking firmly and slowly in time to Sherlock's own thrusts.

Soft moans, delicious shudders, this intoxicating embrace. John reached back and his hands traced those curves of soft skin and angular hip bones. He found Sherlock's arse and pulled him closer and deeper, grinding against him, _more, please, more_ and was rewarded with a gasp and a moan and teeth in his shoulder as Sherlock came, rocking deeper into John and hitting him just where he needed it. The detective's hand tightened around John's cock and pumped a few more times, and then he was the one shuddering and moaning as his release spurted rhythmically over Sherlock's fingers. Bursts of pleasure rolling through his sleep-heavy body. Involuntary groans. Deep breaths. Another kiss on the back of his neck. Could sleep a while longer.

The detective pulled out and reached lazily for some tissues to clean his hand off, then let his arm fall slack over John's torso again. His fingers traced light patterns over John's scar. John couldn't feel much there, just a light tickle. _Mmm._

While he wouldn't want the rest of their ridiculous life together to be any other way, he was glad he could have these moments of sweet normality with Sherlock. Proper intimacy.

 _"Mmm."_ That familiar deep hum-chuckle-thing of satisfaction rumbled from Sherlock's chest into John's back. John knew by now that that noise meant a number of things. There were a lot of things that Sherlock struggled to say aloud, and so communicated without the English language. First, this particular hum meant _"this is the best way to wake up,"_ and then, _"breakfast sounds good about now, if you could make me some toast and tea in the next half hour I'll lie here and wait for you to do it like the lazy (but you don't really mind, you've never minded) git that I am,"_ \- okay, maybe not quite in those words, but that was the general gist - and then, most importantly, it meant _"I don't say it much, but I love you and I am grateful that you share this with me."_ John loved that hum. He was halfway towards scraping together a sentence that expressed some sort of affection and satisfaction when his train of thought was interrupted by a satisfied baritone voice.

"Mycroft would _loathe_ this."

John's sleep-and-orgasm-fogged mind tried to understand.

"Mycroft would hate morning sex and cuddles with me?" He snorted at the thought. That couldn't have been what Sherlock meant, but he wasn't in a fit state right now to try to figure it out.

"No, he would loathe _me_ having morning sex and cuddles with you." John laughed. It was always funny to hear Sherlock say words like 'cuddles'. Sherlock slipped a leg between John's. Much more comfortable.

"Why are you thinking about Mycroft right now?"

"Oh, he's always blustering around and saying an-an-” he gave in to a yawn, "-annoying things."

"What, in your head?"

"Mm."

 _"Mycroft's_ your inner voice?"

"Not really. Mostly he just guides me through difficult deductions, but sometimes he pops in to give unwanted opinions."

Despite the heaviness of his eyelids right now, John was fascinated. Even though he'd known Sherlock for three years, the workings of that mind still escaped his understanding.

"Is that a memory technique? To have him guiding you?"

"Not memory, just logic. When there's a vast amount of data to piece together, it helps to imagine someone talking me through it. And since he's _volunteered-"_ his voice took on a sarcastic tone, "himself for the role of chaperone my whole life, he's become the default."

"Mm. Makes sense, I guess. Why _has_ he got such a bloody power complex?"

"He thinks that just because he's the smart one he should be the one making all the decisions. Hence his career path. Clearly, meddling in my life wasn't enough and he needs to run the whole country."

"Did you just say _he's_ the smart one?"

Sherlock huffed a sigh against the back of John's neck, but offered no other reply. John suppressed a laugh. For Sherlock to admit that sort of thing to John was a big thing in itself. He wouldn't push it.

"Well, he doesn't seem to be doing _that_ bad a job at running the country, at least."

"I didn't say he was," Sherlock's voice was a bit defensive.

_"Oh."_

"Oh what?"

John rolled over to face Sherlock.

"You respect him."

Sherlock drew short intake of breath and frowned, the way he did when he had been taken slightly off-guard and was trying to think of a response.

"Well. That's a civil way of putting it."

"He does care a lot about you, you know. And he's doing a lot of work with [the taking-down-Moriarty thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3691782)."

Sherlock rolled onto his back, and John settled more comfortably into his shoulder.

"He cares a lot about controlling me." Sherlock neglected to address John's second sentence.

"Because he worries about you. Oh, yeah - back to the first bit, why would he hate our morning sex and cuddles?"

"He thinks love is frivolous. He's been _insufferable_ since he found out about us," John opened his mouth to protest, because as far as he knew Mycroft had been (far from being insufferable) pointedly _ignoring_ the topic of their relationship, but Sherlock cut him off. "He spares _you_ when he visits - because he doesn't want to lose you as potential source of intelligence on my whereabouts and wellbeing - but you should see the way he gloats at me when you're not present. Mycroft has an exceptional mind, but he is _spectacularly ignorant_ about some things."

Those words pulled at something in John's memory. He looked up at Sherlock, who smirked back at him. Oh, of course. The first blog post he'd ever written about a case. He'd called Sherlock 'spectacularly ignorant' about some things that seem obvious to normal people (it _was_ the bloody solar system). John chuckled.

"Well, I'm glad _you've_ figured this particular thing out, at any rate."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, his fingers tracing through John's hair.


	18. Merci, Mon Amour (With French)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humour. Feelsy, fluffy smut. Lust-addled Musician!Sherlock speaking French.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to this while you read the third bit of this chapter. You'll thank me. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zXDQ-QliMJI
> 
> Also, if you only speak/read English, know in advance that this chapter contains quite a lot of French (which is rather important to read). I've included an entirely English duplicate of this chapter in the next chapter.
> 
> Regardless of if you read the English chapter, though, make sure you go back and read this chapter with French again - like Sherlock says, English is far too coarse. ;) He can say things in French that he couldn't say in English.
> 
> And finally, big thanks to Akaly who did the translations for me!

20 June 2013

* * *

  _"Help me, John"_

John's stomach dropped and his blood ran cold as he read the text. Sherlock  _never_ asked for help directly. He fumbled with his phone, dialling Sherlock's number. With every ring, his heart rate rose until it was thudding in his ears. Sherlock had been away for a week, investigating a triple murder in Greenland. John had been unable to go with him due to his commitments at the clinic, but Sherlock had kept him updated via text. They had caught the culprit yesterday, and Sherlock was due to fly back to London this evening. Why would he need John's help now? John could only conclude that something had gone terribly wrong. Five rings, and Sherlock had not yet answered. "Jesus, Sherlock, pick up!" Two more rings, then he heard the familiar voice on the end of the line.

"John."

"Sherlock, what's going on? Are you okay?"

"I'm going mad, John, there's a blizzard, flight's delayed, no electricity, I can't leave the house and I don't have any cigarettes!"

Relief and then understanding dawned on John. Sherlock was staying in a private cottage, the only place available in the village where he was investigating. He was bound to get bored quickly now that the case was solved, as he hadn't taken his violin with him and had nowhere to do any experiments. If the power was out, he couldn't even watch telly to distract him (not that it usually did much good anyway), and if the weather was awful enough to stop him leaving the house, he couldn't even go to the village to deduce people or buy cigarettes to take his mind off the boredom.  _Oh, bugger._

"What do I do?" Sherlock's voice was urgent, frustrated. John could tell he was pacing the room, his coat flaring and sweeping with every turn as though he had an audience. Sherlock so  _loved_  to be dramatic. "What would you do if you were stranded?"

John snorted sheepishly. "Have a wank, probably."

"Have a - oh.  _Oh._  John, you  _are_ brilliant." And he hung up without further ado.

John shook his head as he lowered the phone.

 

* * *

 

 _It should have been obvious_ , thought Sherlock. Since beginning a romantic (he hated the word's connotations of soppy-eyed damsels, but it was the only descriptive term that fit, really - damn the confinements of the English language) relationship with John, he had discovered that pleasures of the flesh were an exceedingly potent antidote to his mental anguish; a nepenthe, of sorts. Since December there had been far fewer arguments and many more salacious groans and indecent sighs between the walls of 221B. John had always been within reach, though, so it had never been necessary to clear his mind solitarily.

He hadn't done this since he was in his teens; he had decided early on that it wasn't worth the brain space, just as he had with social niceties, the solar system and romance in general. He paused for a moment.  _I suppose the most effective way would be to remember a particularly satisfying encounter._ He closed his eyes. In his mind palace, he made his way to the "John Watson" room. This room was particularly comfortable; the walls lined with mahogany panels, soft light floating in through a bay window and John's armchair situated in the centre of the floor. He proceeded to the cabinet drawer labelled  _"Shared Sexual Encounters"_  and opened it. He rummaged through the files until he found the one he sought. The first time John had taken him for his own, back on New Year's Day.  _Excellent._  He opened his eyes, shed his coat and suit jacket, and settled himself on the bed.

 

On New Year's day, Sherlock had awoken an hour before dawn. He wouldn't linger in bed usually, but today he had savoured the warm comfort while he waited for John to stir; he wanted to be there when John woke up. He arranged himself into a comfortable thinking/waiting position: lying supine, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Last night, John had returned from New Year's Eve drinks with his work colleagues (Sherlock thought such an outing sounded vile, personally - he had spent the evening in the company of his violin; infinitely more agreeable than the macrology of people who only associated with one another because they happened to work in the same building) with something fierce in his eyes. He barely had time to set down the instrument before John had grabbed him by the lapels and was dragging him to the bedroom.

John had blinked sleepily as he stretched, and frowned confusedly when he saw Sherlock next to him.

"You're not usly here when I wake up," his voice was still slurred with sleep, and the viscous sounds were endearing. He didn't bother moving but for a small curl of his lips.

"Happy New Year, John." John had frowned further at the greeting, seemingly still remembering the date. Sherlock continued on casually, "I believe I left you rather wanting last night. I would apologise, but you only have yourself to blame; you were the one that insisted upon incapacitating me so." Sherlock's eyes opened and met John's, and he raised an amused eyebrow. John's eyes had widened, then, and Sherlock could practically hear his own howls of pleasure bouncing around in John's head as the memories of last night resurfaced. It had been extraordinary indeed - John had pinned him down at the hips and worked him with his mouth alone, bringing him to the brink of orgasm over and over  _("S'il vous plaît, John, s'il vous plaît, vous me tuez si vous ne finissez pas cela maintenant!")_  before actually letting him come. When John had finally granted him release, he had screamed - actually screamed, writhing and sobbing and pulling at the bedsheets like a deranged animal - and passed out almost immediately afterwards from relief and exhaustion. He was still somewhat numb below the waist. It was most likely that John had attended to his own needs in the shower before going to sleep.

John had blushed as he remembered, and Sherlock saw his pulse quicken as it beat beneath the skin of his throat. Perfect - the memory was enough to rekindle his arousal. He had thrown the covers back and rolled over, so that he was half stretched over John's legs. His lips met the sliver of flesh that was showing between the hem of John's pyjama shirt and his pants, and he hooked his tongue under the waistband before pulling the pants down with his teeth, just as John had done to him last night. John's sharp inhale told Sherlock the doctor found the sight just as erotic as he had. He had made short work of John's erection, sucking and lapping and moaning deeply around his length as John shuddered and tangled his fingers in his hair. Soon, John was cursing and moaning his name as his come flooded Sherlock's mouth. He swallowed what he could and licked John clean of the rest, giving the doctor a few minutes to recover. When John had gathered himself, Sherlock returned to his pillow, on his back again. Their fingers tangled loosely between them and John's toes brushed the dorsum of Sherlock's foot.

"Got any New Year's Resolutions?" Sherlock asked with an amused smirk. John had huffed out a laugh. He knew Sherlock asked in jest, as neither of them believed in the significance of a new year.

"Well, if I did, it just got wiped from my brain. How about you?" Sherlock smirk grew wider.

"Yes, in fact, I do." John raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"Really?"

"My resolution is to be the receiving partner of anal penetration, preferably by the end of the day if it would be amenable to you - and I  _know_  it is, your browser history gives me more than enough evidence to conclude  _that_. The only real question is whether you'd like to  _before_  or  _after_  you pick up your phone from your receptionist. I received a message from her last night saying you'd left it at the table and you're welcome to drop by any time today to collect it."

John's eyebrows had shot up before he burst into laughter.

"Jesus, Sherlock you've got a way with words, talk about matter-of-fact," he chuckled as he leaned over to kiss Sherlock's raised brow before he rose and gathered some clothes from their now-shared dresser. "I'll go pick up my phone and some groceries while I'm out, give the old libido some time to recover, but I'm sure I can help you fulfil that particular resolution when I get back." Sherlock smirked again, his eyes following the way the morning light fell over John's naked legs and buttocks as he walked into the bathroom to shower.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock shifted into a comfortable position, lying with his back on the bed. He undid his shirt, recalling how John had moved each button between his fingers. Two fingers would slip beneath the placket, stretching the buttonhole open enough for his thumb to slide the button free. The fabric fell open, and as it whispered over his nipples the friction sent minute shivers radiating outward. John had stopped for a moment, fingers splayed and tracing the grooves between his ribs towards his navel. Sherlock imitated the touch himself. He was surprised to find himself shuddering in response, the electricity rolling from his ribs to his spine down to his feet and groin, and up to his neck.  _Just like when John did it. This may actually work._

John had traced his fingers from sternum down to the line of Sherlock's trousers, and up again, and down again. His eyes had flicked up to meet Sherlock's, a wry smile on his lips.  _"You look like a marble sculpture of a bloody Greek god, or something."_  Again, Sherlock found himself shivering in response to his own hands. He closed his eyes, remembering in vivid detail the way each nerve sent bolts of pleasure through his skin.  _Such a simple touch, John. How is it that you know the precise way to derail me?_

John had shifted his weight back to the middle of Sherlock's thighs to allow him room to pop open the button and divest Sherlock of his trousers and pants. His erection was claret and heavy against his stomach, and John had ran just a finger up his length. Sherlock did the same now, and a small sigh curled in the back of his throat. He was just as sensitive now as he had been then. John had met his gaze as he lowered himself between Sherlock's legs, and the tip of his tongue had met his frenulum, just pressing. Sherlock slicked his forefinger with his tongue and pressed it, just as John's tongue had, to himself.  _Oh._  His eyes flew open, his lungs inflating.  _This is definitely going to work._  The pleasure made his hips jerk and he felt his temperature rise.  _This is more than biology, John._

He licked both palms of his hands, ensuring they were wet with saliva for what John had done next. He hadn't broken eye contact with Sherlock until the last moment when his angle necessitated it. His lips enveloped Sherlock, sliding down his length. Sherlock encircled himself tightly with one hand after another, imagining that the slick warmth was John's mouth. _Oh, dear God._  A short, sharp moan escaped his parted lips.  _Oh, John._

John had bobbed between his legs for about a minute, taking Sherlock as deeply into his throat as he could and extracting deep, raw moans. Then he had changed his technique, flicking his tongue softly on the frenulum every time he withdrew, and Sherlock's fingers worked himself accordingly, his hips thrusting minutely into his hands, his eyes screwed shut as he remembered.  _Oh, John, how can I find words for this? English is far too coarse, the sounds are so ugly. Français peut se rapprocher - Magnifique ? Délicieux ?_ He had tested the words aloud, his voice strained and thick with lust.  _"_ _Tu es magnifique, John, c'est délicieux._ _"_ John's reaction had been instantaneous.  _Oh, c'est évident que tu aimes quand je parle français ; la façon dont tes yeux se ferment plus fortement et dont tes gémissements vibrent autour de moi est divine. Mais ce bonheur est au-delà des mots, John. Seule une mélodie pourrait le décrire_ _._ His breathing was laboured now, his toes curled, and he caught his bottom lip in his teeth to muffle an escaping moan that rumbled in his chest.  _"Oh, mon amour."_

John slid off, began removing his own clothes while Sherlock observed, regaining some control over his breathing. The soft afternoon light played over his hands as though it were syrup. It illuminated his knuckles as he pulled open his shirt, and then flowed over his chest and scar, painting John in honeyed tones. He had shifted forward as he moved to lower his jeans. The light had danced over John's face then, catching his irises and turning them molten. Sherlock had stopped breathing in that moment. No bodily function could be more important than committing that image - John's eyes painted aruluent by the light - to memory. And  _God_ , he was glad he had taken the time now.

John had returned to the bed, and brought Sherlock's knees up so that his feet were planted and spread. He came up to Sherlock's face to kiss him, slow and burning, their tongues dancing. Sherlock could feel himself sliding from a man of science into a creature that craved only touch, as a deep moan rolled up out of chest and onto John's lips. Hands in hair, tongues on throats,  _est-ce cela qui catalysait les symphonies de Beethoven ? Wagner ? Tchaikovsky ? Ont-ils, comme moi, trouvé que les mots sont inadéquats ?_  Sherlock couldn't really recreate that now, so he settled for brushing his fingers over his inner thighs, where the hair on John's legs had tickled him while they kissed. 

 _"_ _Sherlock, wait. I haven't done this before and I don't want to hurt you, I need you to tell me if I'm doing something wrong, okay? You sure you're ready?"_  The slight quaver in John's voice vibrated against Sherlock's lips on his throat. The depth of John's care spread a saccharine warmth through his chest, and the news that this experience was unexplored for John, too, sent something more primal down his spine. He hadn't yet been John's first time for a carnal act. 

 _"_ _Oh John, je suis prêt depuis trois ans._ _"_ He had sucked John's finger into his mouth as his hand encircled John's length. John's reaction, as always, was delicious. His head dropped to Sherlock's shoulder, his hot breath puffing out over Sherlock's pectoral with every stroke. John's erection was hot and solid and the skin was silken to the touch as Sherlock pumped and pulled and twisted with his fingers.  _Ressens-tu aussi cette musique, John ? Ta peau chante-t-elle à mon contact ?_  Sherlock was already sucking his own finger between his lips, his tongue coating it in slick saliva, just as it had to John's. John had collected himself ( _"Oh, Jesus, alright, point taken,")_ , pulled himself back and pressed his slick fingertip gently against Sherlock's entrance. His other hand had soothingly stroked back and forth across Sherlock's thigh, sending electricity dancing across his skin. His sphincter involuntarily widened and contracted around the finger now in the same way it had then. It was a selcouth sensation, and soon his finger was buried to the knuckle. He withdrew enough to allow a second finger to enter, opening himself in the same way John had opened him. 

 _"_ _J'aime la manière que tu as de m'ouvrir, comme si j'étais un cadeau que tu attendais depuis longtemps, John."_

John's hand had returned to gently stroking Sherlock's erection, and now the shivers of pleasure were constant and his breathing was shallow and uneven.  _Chaud. Brûlant. Tendre. Douloureux et divin_ _._  He didn't bother to quieten his sigh. 

 _"_ _Plus, John, s'il te plait."_  John had obliged, pushing deeper and curling his fingers and  _Oh!_  His body bucked now just as it had then, the intense bolt of pleasure shooting up his spine when John hit his prostate, a million nerves singing at the touch. 

 _"_ _Oh, John, je suis prêt, je t'en prie, maintenant !"_  He didn't know if he was speaking the words aloud or if they were still in his head, so lost was he to the memory. John had withdrawn his fingers, slicking himself liberally with lubricant. He watched how John's eyes rolled up a little with that touch, and something twisted sensuously in his navel, he ached with need.  _Tu comprends, pas vrai, John ?_

Sherlock was pumping himself in earnest now as he remembered the feeling of John's head slipping just inside him, and how his hot, heavy length had filled him slowly, allowing him to widen. John's face had been exquisite. His lips slightly parted, his eyes gently crinkled by a smile and locked on Sherlock's as he held the detective's face tenderly. Sherlock wrapped one leg around John's hips, the other foot tracing down the back of John's thigh.  _Encore et encore, John, tu me montres que le sexe est bien plus que tout ce à quoi je pensais._  He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to let his own eyes roll back as the hot, sweet sensations sent shudders rolling through his body, his hands grasped John's shoulders and neck as he brought their lips together again with a moan.  _Si un étranger observait mon corps demain, John, il verrait mes lèvres gonflées, mes cheveux ébouriffés et les suçons que tu m'as laissé. Il verrait les bleus sur mes hanches, là où tes doigts me maintenaient. Il ne connaîtrait pas la mélodie qui se matérialise à ton contact._ When John was completely inside, Sherlock had pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and John had moaned and thrust involuntarily.  _Oh, juste là. C'est toute l'existence._  Sherlock groaned brokenly through his teeth and ground desperately up and down against John, his long fingers digging into John's back and hips, his skin sliding tightly around John's length, and all sanity was relented, they were both animals lost to the sensation, nothing but moans and grunts and deep thrusts and the sweet melody of lust. Both of them were developing a sheen of sweat, and everything was hot and slippery and he panted the words into John's lips, tongue, jawline, throat,  _"_ _Tu as fait de moi un adorateur du feu, John._ _Ce feu ne peut pas être décrit avec des mots, seulement avec un hymne. Penses-tu que je peux traduire cette musique ? Oh ! Elle est bien mieux que n'importe quelle mélodie que j'ai jamais écrite. Comment commencerait-elle ? Ungh - tes gémissements et les miens acciacatura - gnfh - de même que notre chair ?_ _"_  Sherlock's fingers found his prostate  _again and again_  just as John's length had, hot and heavy, and he was definitely moaning aloud now, and his right hand stroked and twisted in time to John's rhythm, he was losing all grip on reality and the melody in his head was soaring,  _"_ _Oh, John, tu vas me rendre sourd ; ce crescendo est trop fort, trop intense, trop exquis, s'il te plait John, j'y suis presque, je t'en prie-_ _"_

Sherlock's desperate pleas had undone John. The doctor came apart with gasp and a groan, and Sherlock could feel his every twitch and involuntary shudder inside him, John's teeth sunk into his shoulder, it felt like a claiming, he truly was John's now,  _oh, là, il est-_ he was coming harder than he ever had before, wave upon wave of pleasure rolling through his body and spilling between their chests, and the melody in his head was shimmering, soaring as he gasped for air, his hands gripping John's hair for dear life and his thighs shivering and squeezing around John's hips. They stilled, panting and locked in a tight embrace, and then there was silence.  _Un silence béni et exquis._

Sherlock opened his eyes, and the empty cottage rematerialised around him, the fire burning low in the grate sending light dancing across the ceiling. His head was blissfully quiet, and his heartbeat was slowing along with his breath. He made his way to the shower, where he cleaned himself off and stood under the scorching spray for a few minutes.  _John, tu es merveilleux_ _._  When he realised he was nodding, his eyelids becoming heavy, he turned off the water. He tumbled back into bed and typed a text to John before succumbing to a deep slumber.

 

* * *

 

John's phone chimed again. The message made him chuckle as he realised that Sherlock had been thinking about New Year's Day.

_"Merci, mon amour. I still need to write that melody down. S."_


	19. Merci, Mon Amour (English Translation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humour. Feelsy, fluffy smut. Lust-addled Musician!Sherlock speaking French.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to this while you read the third part of this chapter. You'll thank me. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zXDQ-QliMJI
> 
> Here is a chapter with translations for the French in chapter 18! It's a duplicate of chapter 18 but entirely in English.
> 
> Italic are thoughts, bold italics are French. Hope you enjoy! After you read this, though, go back and read the chapter with French again - like Sherlock says, English is far too coarse. ;) He can say things in French that he couldn't say in English.

20 June 2013

* * *

  _"Help me, John"_

John's stomach dropped and his blood ran cold as he read the text. Sherlock  _never_ asked for help directly. He fumbled with his phone, dialling Sherlock's number. With every ring, his heart rate rose until it was thudding in his ears. Sherlock had been away for a week, investigating a triple murder in Greenland. John had been unable to go with him due to his commitments at the clinic, but Sherlock had kept him updated via text. They had caught the culprit yesterday, and Sherlock was due to fly back to London this evening. Why would he need John's help now? John could only conclude that something had gone terribly wrong. Five rings, and Sherlock had not yet answered. "Jesus, Sherlock, pick up!" Two more rings, then he heard the familiar voice on the end of the line.

"John."

"Sherlock, what's going on? Are you okay?"

"I'm going mad, John, there's a blizzard, flight's delayed, no electricity, I can't leave the house and I don't have any cigarettes!"

Relief and then understanding dawned on John. Sherlock was staying in a private cottage, the only place available in the village where he was investigating. He was bound to get bored quickly now that the case was solved, as he hadn't taken his violin with him and had nowhere to do any experiments. If the power was out, he couldn't even watch telly to distract him (not that it usually did much good anyway), and if the weather was awful enough to stop him leaving the house, he couldn't even go to the village to deduce people or buy cigarettes to take his mind off the boredom.  _Oh, bugger._

"What do I do?" Sherlock's voice was urgent, frustrated. John could tell he was pacing the room, his coat flaring and sweeping with every turn as though he had an audience. Sherlock so  _loved_  to be dramatic. "What would you do if you were stranded?"

John snorted sheepishly. "Have a wank, probably."

"Have a - oh.  _Oh._  John, you  _are_ brilliant." And he hung up without further ado.

John shook his head as he lowered the phone.

 

* * *

 

 _It should have been obvious_ , thought Sherlock. Since beginning a romantic (he hated the word's connotations of soppy-eyed damsels, but it was the only descriptive term that fit, really - damn the confinements of the English language) relationship with John, he had discovered that pleasures of the flesh were an exceedingly potent antidote to his mental anguish; a nepenthe, of sorts. Since December there had been far fewer arguments and many more salacious groans and indecent sighs between the walls of 221B. John had always been within reach, though, so it had never been necessary to clear his mind solitarily.

He hadn't done this since he was in his teens; he had decided early on that it wasn't worth the brain space, just as he had with social niceties, the solar system and romance in general. He paused for a moment.  _I suppose the most effective way would be to remember a particularly satisfying encounter._ He closed his eyes. In his mind palace, he made his way to the "John Watson" room. This room was particularly comfortable; the walls lined with mahogany panels, soft light floating in through a bay window and John's armchair situated in the centre of the floor. He proceeded to the cabinet drawer labelled  _"Shared Sexual Encounters"_  and opened it. He rummaged through the files until he found the one he sought. The first time John had taken him for his own, back on New Year's Day.  _Excellent._  He opened his eyes, shed his coat and suit jacket, and settled himself on the bed.

 

On New Year's day, Sherlock had awoken an hour before dawn. He wouldn't linger in bed usually, but today he had savoured the warm comfort while he waited for John to stir; he wanted to be there when John woke up. He arranged himself into a comfortable thinking/waiting position: lying supine, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Last night, John had returned from New Year's Eve drinks with his work colleagues (Sherlock thought such an outing sounded vile, personally - he had spent the evening in the company of his violin; infinitely more agreeable than the macrology of people who only associated with one another because they happened to work in the same building) with something fierce in his eyes. He barely had time to set down the instrument before John had grabbed him by the lapels and was dragging him to the bedroom.

John had blinked sleepily as he stretched, and frowned confusedly when he saw Sherlock next to him.

"You're not usly here when I wake up," his voice was still slurred with sleep, and the viscous sounds were endearing. He didn't bother moving but for a small curl of his lips.

"Happy New Year, John." John had frowned further at the greeting, seemingly still remembering the date. Sherlock continued on casually, "I believe I left you rather wanting last night. I would apologise, but you only have yourself to blame; you were the one that insisted upon incapacitating me so." Sherlock's eyes opened and met John's, and he raised an amused eyebrow. John's eyes had widened, then, and Sherlock could practically hear his own howls of pleasure bouncing around in John's head as the memories of last night resurfaced. It had been extraordinary indeed - John had pinned him down at the hips and worked him with his mouth alone, bringing him to the brink of orgasm over and over  _("S'il te plaît, John, s'il te plaît, vous me tuez si vous ne finissez pas cela maintenant!")_  before actually letting him come. When John had finally granted him release, he had screamed - actually screamed, writhing and sobbing and pulling at the bedsheets like a deranged animal - and passed out almost immediately afterwards from relief and exhaustion. He was still somewhat numb below the waist. It was most likely that John had attended to his own needs in the shower before going to sleep.

John had blushed as he remembered, and Sherlock saw his pulse quicken as it beat beneath the skin of his throat. Perfect - the memory was enough to rekindle his arousal. He had thrown the covers back and rolled over, so that he was half stretched over John's legs. His lips met the sliver of flesh that was showing between the hem of John's pyjama shirt and his pants, and he hooked his tongue under the waistband before pulling the pants down with his teeth, just as John had done to him last night. John's sharp inhale told Sherlock the doctor found the sight just as erotic as he had. He had made short work of John's erection, sucking and lapping and moaning deeply around his length as John shuddered and tangled his fingers in his hair. Soon, John was cursing and moaning his name as his come flooded Sherlock's mouth. He swallowed what he could and licked John clean of the rest, giving the doctor a few minutes to recover. When John had gathered himself, Sherlock returned to his pillow, on his back again. Their fingers tangled loosely between them and John's toes brushed the dorsum of Sherlock's foot.

"Got any New Year's Resolutions?" Sherlock asked with an amused smirk. John had huffed out a laugh. He knew Sherlock asked in jest, as neither of them believed in the significance of a new year.

"Well, if I did, it just got wiped from my brain. How about you?" Sherlock smirk grew wider.

"Yes, in fact, I do." John raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"Really?"

"My resolution is to be the receiving partner of anal penetration, preferably by the end of the day if it would be amenable to you - and I  _know_  it is, your browser history gives me more than enough evidence to conclude  _that_. The only real question is whether you'd like to  _before_  or  _after_  you pick up your phone from your receptionist. I received a message from her last night saying you'd left it at the table and you're welcome to drop by any time today to collect it."

John's eyebrows had shot up before he burst into laughter.

"Jesus, Sherlock you've got a way with words, talk about matter-of-fact," he chuckled as he leaned over to kiss Sherlock's raised brow before he rose and gathered some clothes from their now-shared dresser. "I'll go pick up my phone and some groceries while I'm out, give the old libido some time to recover, but I'm sure I can help you fulfil that particular resolution when I get back." Sherlock smirked again, his eyes following the way the morning light fell over John's naked legs and buttocks as he walked into the bathroom to shower.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock shifted into a comfortable position, lying with his back on the bed. He undid his shirt, recalling how John had moved each button between his fingers. Two fingers would slip beneath the placket, stretching the buttonhole open enough for his thumb to slide the button free. The fabric fell open, and as it whispered over his nipples the friction sent minute shivers radiating outward. John had stopped for a moment, fingers splayed and tracing the grooves between his ribs towards his navel. Sherlock imitated the touch himself. He was surprised to find himself shuddering in response, the electricity rolling from his ribs to his spine down to his feet and groin, and up to his neck.  _Just like when John did it. This may actually work._

John had traced his fingers from sternum down to the line of Sherlock's trousers, and up again, and down again. His eyes had flicked up to meet Sherlock's, a wry smile on his lips.  _"You look like a marble sculpture of a bloody Greek god, or something."_  Again, Sherlock found himself shivering in response to his own hands. He closed his eyes, remembering in vivid detail the way each nerve sent bolts of pleasure through his skin.  _Such a simple touch, John. How is it that you know the precise way to derail me?_

John had shifted his weight back to the middle of Sherlock's thighs to allow him room to pop open the button and divest Sherlock of his trousers and pants. His erection was claret and heavy against his stomach, and John had ran just a finger up his length. Sherlock did the same now, and a small sigh curled in the back of his throat. He was just as sensitive now as he had been then. John had met his gaze as he lowered himself between Sherlock's legs, and the tip of his tongue had met his frenulum, just pressing. Sherlock slicked his forefinger with his tongue and pressed it, just as John's tongue had, to himself.  _Oh._  His eyes flew open, his lungs inflating.  _This is definitely going to work._  The pleasure made his hips jerk and he felt his temperature rise.  _This is more than biology, John._

He licked both palms of his hands, ensuring they were wet with saliva for what John had done next. He hadn't broken eye contact with Sherlock until the last moment when his angle necessitated it. His lips enveloped Sherlock, sliding down his length. Sherlock encircled himself tightly with one hand after another, imagining that the slick warmth was John's mouth. _Oh, dear God._  A short, sharp moan escaped his parted lips.  _Oh, John._

John had bobbed between his legs for about a minute, taking Sherlock as deeply into his throat as he could and extracting deep, raw moans. Then he had changed his technique, flicking his tongue softly on the frenulum every time he withdrew, and Sherlock's fingers worked himself accordingly, his hips thrusting minutely into his hands, his eyes screwed shut as he remembered.  _Oh, John, how can I find words for this? English is far too coarse, the sounds are so ugly. French may be closer - **magnificent? Delicious?**_ He had tested the words aloud, his voice strained and thick with lust.

 ** _"_** ** _You are magnificent, John, this is delicious."_**   John's reaction had been instantaneous.  ** _Oh; it's obvious that you like when I speak French, the way your eyes close tighter and your moan vibrates around me is divine._   _But this bliss is beyond the spoken language, John. Only a melody could describe this._**  His breathing was laboured now, his toes curled, and he caught his bottom lip in his teeth to muffle an escaping moan that rumbled in his chest.

**_"Oh, my love."_ **

John slid off, began removing his own clothes while Sherlock observed, regaining some control over his breathing. The soft afternoon light played over his hands as though it were syrup. It illuminated his knuckles as he pulled open his shirt, and then flowed over his chest and scar, painting John in honeyed tones. He had shifted forward as he moved to lower his jeans. The light had danced over John's face then, catching his irises and turning them molten. Sherlock had stopped breathing in that moment. No bodily function could be more important than committing that image - John's eyes painted aruluent by the light - to memory. And  _God_ , he was glad he had taken the time now.

John had returned to the bed, and brought Sherlock's knees up so that his feet were planted and spread. He came up to Sherlock's face to kiss him, slow and burning, their tongues dancing. Sherlock could feel himself sliding from a man of science into a creature that craved only touch, as a deep moan rolled up out of chest and onto John's lips. Hands in hair, tongues on throats,  ** _is this what catalyzed Beethoven's symphonies? Wagner? Tchaikovsky ? Did they, like me, find that words are inadequate?_** Sherlock couldn't really recreate that now, so he settled for brushing his fingers over his inner thighs, where the hair on John's legs had tickled him while they kissed. 

 _"Sherlock, wait. I haven't done this before and I don't want to hurt you, I need you to tell me if I'm doing something wrong, okay? You sure you're ready?"_  The slight quaver in John's voice vibrated against Sherlock's lips on his throat. The depth of John's care spread a saccharine warmth through his chest, and the news that this experience was unexplored for John, too, sent something more primal down his spine. He hadn't yet been John's first time for a carnal act. 

 ** _"Oh John, I've been ready for three years."_** He had sucked John's finger into his mouth as his hand encircled John's length. John's reaction, as always, was delicious. His head dropped to Sherlock's shoulder, his hot breath puffing out over Sherlock's pectoral with every stroke. John's erection was hot and solid and the skin was silken to the touch as Sherlock pumped and pulled and twisted with his fingers.  ** _Do you feel this music too, John? Does your skin sing under my touch?_** Sherlock was already sucking his own finger between his lips, his tongue coating it in slick saliva, just as it had to John's. John had collected himself  _("Oh, Jesus, alright, point taken,")_ , pulled himself back and pressed his slick fingertip gently against Sherlock's entrance. His other hand had soothingly stroked back and forth across Sherlock's thigh, sending electricity dancing across his skin. His sphincter involuntarily widened and contracted around the finger now in the same way it had then. It was a selcouth sensation, and soon his finger was buried to the knuckle. He withdrew enough to allow a second finger to enter, opening himself in the same way John had opened him. 

**_"I love the way you open me like I'm a gift for which you have been waiting, John."_ **

John's hand had returned to gently stroking Sherlock's erection, and now the shivers of pleasure were constant and his breathing was shallow and uneven.  ** _Hot. Burning. Sweet. Painful and heavenly._** He didn't bother to quieten his sigh. 

 ** _"More, John, please."_** John had obliged, pushing deeper and curling his fingers and  _Oh!_  His body bucked now just as it had then, the intense bolt of pleasure shooting up his spine when John hit his prostate, a million nerves singing at the touch. 

 ** _"Oh, John, I'm ready, please, now!"_** He didn't know if he was speaking the words aloud or if they were still in his head, so lost was he to the memory. John had withdrawn his fingers, slicking himself liberally with lubricant. He watched how John's eyes rolled up a little with that touch, and something twisted sensuously in his navel, he ached with need.  ** _You understand, don't you, John?_**

Sherlock was pumping himself in earnest now as he remembered the feeling of John's head slipping just inside him, and how his hot, heavy length had filled him slowly, allowing him to widen. John's face had been exquisite. His lips slightly parted, his eyes gently crinkled by a smile and locked on Sherlock's as he held the detective's face tenderly. Sherlock wrapped one leg around John's hips, the other foot tracing down the back of John's thigh.  ** _Again and again, John, you give me more than I ever thought sex could be. This is love._** He fought the urge to let his own eyes roll back as the hot, sweet sensations sent shudders rolling through his body, his hands grasped John's shoulders and neck as he brought their lips together again with a moan. ** _If a stranger observed my body tomorrow, John, they would see my swollen lips, my hair disheveled, and the lovebites you leave me with. They would see the pale blue on my hips where your fingers have held me. They would not know the melody that materializes with your contact._** When John was completely inside, Sherlock had pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and John had moaned and thrust involuntarily.  ** _Oh, just there. That's all of existence._**  Sherlock groaned brokenly and ground desperately up and down against John, his long fingers digging into John's back and hips, his skin sliding tightly around John's length, and all sanity was relented, they were both animals lost to the sensation, nothing but moans and grunts and deep thrusts and the sweet melody of lust. Both of them were developing a sheen of sweat, and everything was hot and slippery and he panted the words into John's lips, tongue, jawline, throat,  ** _"You've made an ignicolist of me, John. This fire could not be described with words, only a hymn. Do you think I could translate this music? Ohh!, This is much greater than any melody I have never written. How would it start? Ungh - your moans and mine_ acciacatura _\- gnfh - the same as our flesh?"_** Sherlock's fingers found his prostate  _again and again_  just as John's length had, hot and heavy, and he was definitely moaning aloud now, and his right hand stroked and twisted in time to John's rhythm, he was losing all grip on reality and the melody in his head was soaring,  ** _"Oh, John, you'll make me go deaf, this crescendo is too much, too intense, too exquisite, please John, I'm so close, please-"_**

Sherlock's desperate pleas had undone John, and he came apart with gasp and a groan, and Sherlock could feel his every twitch and involuntary shudder inside him, John's teeth sunk into his shoulder, and  ** _Oh, there it is-_** he was coming harder than he ever had before, wave upon wave of pleasure rolling through his body and spilling between their chests, and the melody in his head was shimmering, soaring as he gasped for air, his hands gripping John's hair for dear life and his thighs shivering and squeezing around John's hips. They stilled, panting and locked in a tight embrace, and then there was silence.  ** _Blessed, exquisite silence._**

Sherlock opened his eyes, and the empty cottage rematerialised around him, the fire burning low in the grate sending light dancing across the ceiling. His head was blissfully quiet, and his heartbeat was slowing along with his breath. He made his way to the shower, where he cleaned himself off and stood under the scorching spray for a few minutes.  ** _John, you are a marvel._**  When he realised he was nodding, his eyelids becoming heavy, he turned off the water. He tumbled back into bed and typed a text to John before succumbing to a deep slumber.

 

* * *

 

John's phone chimed again. The message made him chuckle as he realised that Sherlock had been thinking about New Year's Day.

_" **Thank you, my love.**  I still need to write that melody down. S."_


	20. Spare Change/The Driver in Belgrade/Watch the Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot. Fluff. Humour (come on, he's wearing skinny jeans). Homeless Network. Drama?

17 August 2013

* * *

Sherlock's phone chimed, pulling him out of his reverie. He read the text.

_"Spare change for Mr. Holmes, 3 Manson Place at 4pm today. HY"_

Sherlock typed his reply as quickly as his fingers would allow.

_"£3.50 for one coffee would do. SH"_

The codes that the homeless network used were constantly changing. With 'Operation Rentokil' (Mycroft had an awful habit of giving things stupid code names to aid his notion of self-importance, and the plan to unravel Moriarty's network was no exception) in full swing, every precaution was being taken to avoid detection. The code was being changed every second day. Currently, anyone in the network who had information for Sherlock would send him a text suggesting a time and place to meet. Sherlock would reply with a monetary value (the pound value corresponding to how many hundred yards to the west, and the pence value corresponding to how many yards north of the originally suggested location) and a number of food items (the number referring to how many hours to meet before the originally suggested meeting time) to arrange the actual time and location to meet. No important information was ever sent electronically, or even by paper these days - word of mouth only.

This was the final piece. The last operative that Sherlock and Mycroft needed information on before the thread could be tugged and Moriarty's empire would fall. Sherlock had chosen specifically to give Howard Young the task; the man had proven himself over and over again to be astute, capable and - most importantly - unwaveringly loyal to Sherlock. He was one of the most trusted members of the homeless network.

Sherlock rose and crossed the room to where John was reading his book (Honestly, _The Black Dahlia_? The plot was transparent from the first nine pages) in his armchair. He was so engrossed in it (bless him) that he only started and looked up when Sherlock was standing directly in front of him.

"Everything alright?"

In answer, Sherlock bent down to kiss him, his hands bracing his weight on the arms of the chair either side of John. John made a pleased sort of sound and closed the book. Sherlock noted he didn't bother to dog-ear it; perhaps _not_ so engrossed, then. Sherlock loved kissing John like this, unhurried and without intention; it was physical contact that was intimate and enjoyable without being carnal. An effective way to express affection, and particularly pleasing due to the endorphins it produced. Now, Sherlock let his lips speak wordlessly to John of his relief and anticipation. For so long now, the shadow of Moriarty had been hanging over them, a distant but constant threat to their existence together. Not for much longer. John drew in a sharp breath, and his eyes flickered open as understanding hit him. "You've got him - the last one?"

Sherlock let a smile reach his eyes.

"The last one."

He pulled away, and retreated to the bedroom to find a suitable change of clothes.

 

* * *

 

He was walking towards the intersection of Gloucester Road and Harrington Gardens, looking convincingly like a city-boy barista on his lunch break. Burgundy chequered shirt buttoned right up to the neck, no tie, brown leather bomber jacket, fashionably faded skinny-cut jeans complete with a newsboy cap and heavy black leather boots. Remnants of coffee stains over his shoes, and a burn on his finger from the milk steamer. Sherlock's disguises were nothing if not thorough. John hadn't been able to suppress a laugh when he had seen him.

"Got any spare change, sonny?"

Sherlock stopped as though the grubby man had just caught his attention, and put on one of what John called his 'civilian voices' - this particular accent cultivated over years of listening to the inflections of London market vendors. "Oh, um, yeah, gimme a sec mate, I'll have a look."

He fished his wallet out of the pocket of the jacket and crouched uncomfortably in the too-tight jeans next to Howard, who was sitting against the wall. Nobody even glanced as they hurried past. London life left no room for interest in the homeless that cluttered up the sidewalk. He pretended to rummage through his wallet for coins as Howard relayed the final snippets of information to him in a low voice. "Filip Lendgate, male, 48, widower, fifteen children who need feeding and keeping off the streets. Jim's personal driver in Belgrade."

"Ah, look mate, I haven't got any coin but take this." He pressed a folded £50 note into Howard's hands.

"God bless ya, sonny, God bless ya."

Sherlock gave him a genuine smile before standing and continuing on his way. It wouldn't be long before Howard unfolded the note and discovered the train ticket. Howard had a daughter and grandchildren in Leeds that didn't know he lived on the streets. He rarely visited due to the cost of train travel - in fact, it had been over three years since he'd seen them. Howard would never divulge this to Sherlock, of course, but Sherlock had deduced it. Perhaps his relationship with John had softened him, but he thought it was about time Howard got to visit home.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock didn't bother to knock, swinging the door to Mycroft's office open. He was back in his suit and coat. For once, the elder Holmes didn't protest at the intrusion. He glanced at the two suited men on the opposite side of his desk, and sighed. "Deepest apologies, gentlemen, we will have to continue this at a later date." When the suits didn't immediately move, Mycroft rose from his seat pointedly. _"Another time_ , gentlemen."

Sherlock waited until the door was closed and the two men had walked several yards down the corridor before speaking. "Fancy a walk in the park, dear brother? You look like you need some fresh air." They didn't trust any enclosed space nowadays, not even Mycroft's own office.

Twenty minutes later, they were in the fresh air of Hyde Park, each with a cigarette in hand. "So. The last operative." Mycroft looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock took a long drag before relaying the information about Lendgate. Mycroft appraised him with that all-seeing stare that had scared him when he was a kid. Now though, Sherlock understood what that stare meant. Like his own, Mycroft's mind was whirling through the data, making the final connections - checking, double checking, triple checking the links between each file, every operative, all the threads in the web. Eventually, he refocused on Sherlock. A rare crinkle appeared at the corners of his eyes.

"A job well done, it seems. And now it is time, brother dearest, to sit back and watch the show," he paused and his face again became serious. "But _be vigilant,_ Sherlock. There is every possibility that some may remain loyal. Keep an eye out."

The elder Holmes crushed the cigarette into the pavement, turned on his heel and swept away.

 


	21. Broken Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot. Moriarty. Drama?

September-November 2013

* * *

 

_"WHO IS JIM MORIARTY? THE MOST DANGEROUS MAN YOU'VE NEVER HEARD OF"_

_"UNRAVELLING THE WEB: CRIMINAL MASTERMIND TAKEN TO COURT"_

_"HOW DOES MORIARTY DO IT? THE INSIDE SCOOP ON JIM'S CRIMINAL NETWORK"_

_"DEAR JIM: EVIDENCE MOUNTS AGAINST CONSULTING CRIMINAL AS WITNESSES EMERGE"_

 

* * *

 

The headlines blared from every newspaper that John brought home. True to plan, Mycroft had orchestrated Moriarty's arrest and lined up the first witnesses against him. The first few threads broken.

It had been agreed that Sherlock and John would remain out of the legal proceedings as much as possible - for their own protection. The last thing Sherlock needed was a public image. Moriarty had plenty of people in the media still and for the next several months while the network was unravelled, he needed to continue his habit of keeping as low a profile as possible.

He stayed behind the scenes, putting everything he had stored in his mind palace under _"Moriarty, James"_ (Moriarty didn't just have his own room, but his own _library_ in Sherlock's head) down in writing as evidence for the prosecution. Moriarty's network was so vast that for more than a month, he stopped taking cases entirely. He would have usually complained about the lack of excitement - he spent his days mostly sitting at the desk, writing and cross-checking facts - but knowing that he was bringing Moriarty to his knees with every word he wrote was immensely satisfying. Once upon a time, he would have bemoaned the lack of a rush, the lack of adrenaline. This though, this was cold-blooded; the most orchestrated form of genius. Everything was anticipated, every eventuality allowed for. Moriarty would not be able to contest the vast bank of evidence that the Holmes brothers had compiled. That was the most satisfying part of this operation; there would be no kicking or screaming. Moriarty would know that he had been stopped. He would meet Sherlock's eyes and he would know that he had been beaten.

Soon enough, they would be able to make more arrests - as the court proceedings continued, more evidence was piling up and more names were being revealed.

November rolled around, and the charges against Moriarty already were worth 15 years in jail - and they courts had barely scratched the surface.

John continued his work at the surgery, taking on a full-time load to keep himself occupied. With no cases, and nothing otherwise he could do in the fight against Moriarty, he was slowly going a little mad with the need for some danger; something to get the blood pumping. His restlessness did result in some pretty explosive sex, but he was still looking forward to when this particular chapter closed and they could take on cases again.


	22. Tell Me Something Interesting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smutty smut. Top John, Bottom Sherlock. Scientist!Sherlock.

3 October 2013

* * *

John was going mad. For over a month, now, there had been no cases. Sherlock was completely focused upon compiling evidence for the prosecution against Moriarty and spent at least twelve hours every day at the desk. He had never known Sherlock to be able to sit so still for such long periods of time without turning destructive. He wasn't making mess, he wasn't keeping disgusting experiments in the fridge, he wasn't shooting walls or burning household items or shouting angry deductions at people. He was at the desk before John rose in the morning and he was still there when John returned from work. He would only eat if John physically removed him from his seat at the desk and hauled him to the kitchen table. Similarly, he would only sleep if John pulled him to bed. This became a daily routine.

When he wasn't writing, he would speak incessantly to John of extent and reach of Moriarty's network. John didn't follow what he was saying a lot of the time - the web was so vast and complex that probably only the Holmes brothers and Moriarty himself could fully comprehend it. Sherlock was borderline manic; completely obsessed with deconstructing Moriarty's empire and laying it out for the prosecution. Sherlock always had been happiest with a puzzle, and this was the best one yet.

For John, though, it was slightly less thrilling. There was nothing that he could do to help. There was no need for running or doctoring or shooting. Now, the fight against Moriarty was purely in the courts. Letting the lawyers take him apart bit by bit with the information that the Holmes brothers were giving them.

So, he worked at the surgery. He prescribed antibiotics, he diagnosed gastroenteritis, he examined minor wounds. He did the shopping. He read books. He watched telly. _God, is this how normal people live?_

 

* * *

 

He came home on Thursday in a rotten mood. There was no particular reason for his bad humour; he hadn't been vomited or sneezed on, he hadn't had any cancer diagnoses, he didn't have to go shopping and argue with the bloody self-checkout machines. It was just the mundane _normality_ that was driving him to distraction.

When he got in the door, Sherlock offered no greeting. It was entirely possible that he was so focused he wasn't even aware that John was home. Well, he'd be bloody aware of it in a minute.

Not very much time later and Sherlock was moaning softly into John's mouth, John having hauled him to the sofa and descended upon those lush lips. John left no mystery as to his intentions, pushing Sherlock down on his back and settling between his legs. He savoured the look of surprise on Sherlock's face even as the detective parted his lips to let John's tongue in. They hadn't had sex since Moriarty had been arrested - not on purpose, but Sherlock's mind was elsewhere and John was exhausted at the end of every day at the surgery (usually just pulling one off in the shower). Sherlock had clearly been ignoring any arousal, because now his body went from ground state to rock-hard in under a minute, just under the influence of John's lips and tongue on his own. _Looks like I've opened the floodgates._

John didn't waste any time sitting back to pull Sherlock's pyjama trousers down just enough to free the erection that was tenting them. As soon as John's hands were out of the way, Sherlock's were unbuttoning John's trousers. His fingers slipped inside, stroking along his length through his pants. Sometimes, he remained in control just enough to make sex into an experiment. What touches made John melt? Gasp? Shout? How long could he draw him out before orgasm? How did his own moans, groans, curses, whimpers affect John's arousal? Tonight, though, he was content to let the fog claim him. He hadn't realised how mentally exhausted he felt until John had flung him onto the sofa. For the last month, he had been doing nothing but think of Moriarty's web for every hour of every day and, for once, he needed a break - to let his mind quieten. John was oh, _so_ effective at doing that. He let his fingers tease John through the pants, relishing the little rolls of John's hips into his fingers. This raw, unthinking desire was what he needed now.

"Kiss me, John." His hand trailed up John's shirt to his chest, before catching the fabric and pulling John down towards him to kiss him again. However, John didn't oblige him. He stopped, his mouth two inches from Sherlock's, so temptingly close.

"Or what?" He raised his eyebrows in challenge. Sherlock tried to rise up to meet him by propping himself up on his elbows, but John just moved further away. _This is new._ Whenever they toyed with power imbalances, Sherlock was the one who took control.

John placed his hand on Sherlock's chest and pushed him down again. _Oh God._ All the air left his lungs, and it wasn't due to the weight that John was pressing on his sternum.

The look on Sherlock's face was priceless. His eyes were wide, his pupils huge, and his lips were parted in surprise. John hadn't felt the need to take control like this before, but tonight something in him just flicked like a switch. He needed to see Sherlock beneath him, hear him begging for him, doing exactly what John wanted him to do.

"John." Sherlock's voice was close to breathless and his eyes never left John's. "Please, take what you need from me." There was no hint of mischief in his voice.

John smirked, and shifted down between Sherlock's legs. He tugged up the detective's pyjama shirt and laid the softest flutter of a kiss next to his belly button. That alone was enough to make Sherlock's breathing hitch. _This is going to be fun._

He laid gentle kisses all over Sherlock's navel, then at the join between his stomach and his leg, then down closer to the base of his cock, where the dark hair tickled his lips. Sherlock's breaths were losing all rhythm and he was shivering beneath John's lips.

John came up so that his lips just brushed over the head of Sherlock's cock, and he heard a gasp above him. He peppered soft, dry kisses all over Sherlock's length, and Sherlock was already moaning softly, so sensitive after a month without any touch.

"Sherlock, tell me something interesting." He pulled his lips away to make eye contact. Sherlock's eyes were wide. "What?"

"Tell me something interesting - _not_ about Moriarty's network - and I'll reward you." He continued those little dry kisses, just enough to make Sherlock shiver and twitch his hips and definitely enough to make him crave more.

It took Sherlock a few seconds to reform coherent thought. _Interesting. Interesting. Not Moriarty's network._ "Um, ah -" his voice came out shaky, but he was so far gone he didn't even care. With John pressing his lips against him, only to take them away, and repeat the torture over and over again, how could he think? _Need to feel more. Need to please John._ He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate.

"Chromium has electron configuration with one electron in the 4s orbital and five in the 3d orbital instead-" he gasped as John's tongue darted out to touch his frenulum, "-instead of the expected two in the 4s orbital and four in the 3d orbi- _oh!"_ He bucked and his eyes flew open as John's lips slid tightly over the head of his cock, that wet, hot tongue pressing against him. _"Oh God."_ He was panting, his arm flung over his eyes. Somewhere, distantly in the back of his mind, he was raising an eyebrow at himself. _Really, first-year chemistry? That's the best you can do?_ But that voice was quickly shooed away by a gloriously luscious lick up the centre of his erection.

"Goethe! Goethe was the first scientist to show that the intermaxillery segment exists in all mammals - _Oh, Jesus_ \- and he-he published one-hundred and forty-two works ranging the fields of poetry _\- oh, fuck, John_ \- novels, history, botany and-and biology - _Ohh!"_ His words ceased as John swallowed him to the hilt.

Well, if this wasn't one of the most erotic things John had experienced, he didn't know what was. Sherlock actually cursing out loud was something he rarely heard. Sherlock just didn't use such crude words - in fact, he seemed to always revert to French when overcome by lust. This - curses and blasphemy, in _English,_ nonetheless - was just about the hottest thing he could think of right now. And the fact that he was clearly so desperately trying to stay online - his desperate stream of facts to please John, despite his obvious mental exhaustion - was rather sweet. He decided to take mercy on the poor man.

Sherlock was trying (and failing - most of the noises he was uttering as John bobbed and swallowed around him definitely weren't part of the English language) to tell John something about the first recorded crime gangs when John's fingers pressed over his lips, silencing him. He felt John's lips slide off from around him.

"Suck. Get them nice and slick."

He did as John said, sucking his first two fingers as far into his mouth as he could, and felt John's mouth envelope him again. He groaned, and felt John groan around him, too. This was going to end very quickly if John kept this up. He licked all around John's fingers, between them, getting them as wet as he could, but John was pulling them away, out of reach of his tongue, and _oh._ A short whine pushed out of the back of his throat as he felt John's fingertips push against his entrance.

"Is this what you want, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John. Please. _Please, anything -argh!"_ A guttural groan escaped him as John pushed not one, but two fingers in, laving wetly at his cock with his tongue again. He arched his back, pushing for _more, deeper, need more burn,_ and John gave it to him. He hit Sherlock's prostate once, twice, three, four, five times, and Sherlock couldn't think of anything but the sensation, he was overwhelmed, John was inside him and around him all at once, he was so close to the edge -

_"Come on, Sherlock, let me taste you."_

He couldn't resist the demand. He came hard, his hips thrusting forward into John's mouth then back onto his fingers, completely trapped in this prison of ecstasy, and he felt John swallowing around him, and he couldn't do anything but shudder and groan and gasp for air as the pleasure rolled through him.

Eventually, Sherlock stopped shuddering beneath him. John was going to give him a few minutes to recover (Sherlock had a very short refractory period and this night was definitely not over yet), so he just rested his head against the detective's hip. Not thirty seconds had passed, though, before Sherlock was sitting up, his eyes wide again.

"Please, John. Please, fuck my mouth. _I need you to take me how you want me."_

The detective slipped off the sofa so that he was kneeling on the floor. Hearing him say "fuck" again did something very good to John's cock.

All of a sudden, he found himself standing, Sherlock's lips sucking around his cock and his eyes locked on John's. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's buttocks, ensuring he stayed steady. _Jesus, that's a sight._ Sherlock looked so _needy._ The detective never did things in half measures.

His fingers laced into Sherlock's curls as a moan escaped his lips and he pushed into Sherlock's mouth. He had never really done this - he had always let his partners go at their own pace. He prided himself on being a considerate lover, but if this is what Sherlock _wanted_ \- hell, who was he to refuse?

He picked up his rhythm, but was still a little cautious of choking Sherlock. The detective pulled off, stopping for just a moment, a smile playing about his lips.

"Oh come on, John. _Misbehave."_ His hands gripped John's buttocks and pushed him deeper into his throat, his muffled moan practically pornographic in its wanton hunger, and John really got the message. Those lips, that hot, silken tongue, that rumbling vibration around his length, and those pale eyes wide and fixed on him? He let go of all inhibition as he fucked Sherlock's mouth in earnest, and both men's moans echoed through the flat.

He hadn't yet seen this side of Sherlock; so desperate for John to take complete control. Sherlock showed no sign of being pushed too far - even when he gagged once or twice on John's cock, he only pulled off for a second before swallowing him down again with renewed enthusiasm. _Fuck._ John was on the edge within minutes, brought there by the feeling of Sherlock's tongue sliding _just so_ against him as he swallowed around John over and over, as though he couldn't get enough.

"Oh, fuck, Sherlock, wait, stop," he managed to pant out, tugging the detective's hair to make him pull off. He rested there for a few seconds, panting, regaining a little control. Sherlock just waited on his knees for instructions, his cock red and leaking again. Begging to be touched.

"Table or bed?"

Sherlock's pupils visibly dilated and his long fingers jumped up to stroke John's thighs. "I am _yours,_ John. _Take me how you want me."_

 _Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the bloody donkey. Sod the table, sod the bed, this is happening right here._ John leaned down to catch Sherlock's red lips with his own in a kiss that quickly became a burning dance of tongues.

Sherlock's head was spinning as John pulled away and nudged his knees apart. Then, John himself kneeled behind Sherlock, knees just inside Sherlock's calves and his cock resting in the dip between Sherlock's arse cheeks. He felt the warm, strong hands caressing his waist, his ribcage. He shivered.

"Ready?"

"Always."

John's left hand snaked under Sherlock's t-shirt, coming to rest over his heart, holding them upright in a tight embrace. John pressed his head into Sherlock's entrance, the way eased by the slick coating of Sherlock's spit still covering his cock. Sherlock's lungs inflated as John's hot, heavy length filled him. This was such an intimate way to make love. John's left arm was around his chest, feeling the patterns of his heart and his lungs. He heard John's quiet, breathless _"Oh, my God,"_ as the doctor buried himself to the hilt. Knowing that John was just as lost to this as he was made Sherlock shiver. John's right hand came around to the front to take Sherlock in hand and Sherlock's hips bucked. _"Oh, John."_

John started painfully slowly. He pulled out until only this head was still inside Sherlock, and then slid back in equally slowly. At the same time, his fist slid up and down Sherlock's cock, so he was fucking him inside and out. Sherlock let out a whimper that was definitely not within his usual vocal range.

"Sherlock, tell me again," John's voice was rough, and Sherlock's voice turned raw and deep now, his neck arched back as he tried to find words in the fog clouding his mind.

"I am yours. I am yours - _ungh_ \- and I will only ever want more of you. More of _this. I will always be yours, John."_ And with that, John moaned into Sherlock's shoulder blade and lost control. His hips collided with Sherlock's arse again and again, the obscene slaps of skin-on-skin ringing through the flat. Sherlock groaned as the shudders rocked his body, his eyes rolling back, his hands reaching up to anchor themselves in John's hair as the doctor's teeth sunk deep into his shoulder and he slid into him again and again. This was hard and fast, and the rhythm of John fucking him and pumping his cock all at once rocked all coherent thought out of him, he was just letting out a stream of constant moaning cries, as John hit his prostate again and again and _again, more, John, more, please John, oh Christ, oh Christ, keep biting, it hurts, it's good, it's so, so good, fuck me harder, like that, just like that, oh fuck, John-_

Sherlock came screaming and sobbing, shuddering back into John as his come spurted rhythmically over John's fingers and onto the sofa. John wasn't far behind.

Experiencing Sherlock breaking was always enough to push him over the edge. Knowing that he was the one to reduce the great Consulting Detective to this beautiful mess off nerves and need and lust was the most incredible sexual experience he could have. He came hard, his teeth still digging into Sherlock's shoulder, he tasted blood on the material of the shirt as he shuddered and groaned, _God, I've been missing this._

Eventually, their hips stuttered and stilled, the only sound in the room their panted breaths. Both groaned when John withdrew. Sherlock flopped forward and rolled onto his back, a satisfied smile plastered over his face. John joined him, his head resting on Sherlock's bicep. That warm chuckle rumbled through Sherlock's chest and John couldn't help but laugh, too.

"You, John Watson, are a marvel," Sherlock said. His fingers came to softly run up and down John's arm. _Jeez, he must really be gone._ Compliments were a fairly regular occurrence - but tender post-coital caresses, as though they were doe-eyed twentysomethings? _That_ was definitely out of character. Not that John minded.

"I'm yours, too, you know."

Sherlock turned his head to meet his eyes.

"I know."

John thought that he was the only person (perhaps Mrs Hudson was an exception) to know the warmth with which Sherlock could smile. Whatever anybody at the Yard may claim, Sherlock Holmes _definitely_ had a heart.

John caught the fingers stroking his arm with his own and intertwined them. They laid like that for some minutes, enjoying the quiet. Breath. The traffic of Baker Street. London rolling on. It was quite possible that they could fall asleep right there on the floor, but John had some sense of practicality about him.

"Right. I've got to clean your shoulder up and we both need a shower."

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed non-committally, clearly unwilling to move just yet.

"And if you come have a shower _now_ , I'll make bolognaise for dinner _with_ garlic bread." Sherlock's eyes flew open with a sudden vitality. He was perfectly willing to go for days without eating, but there were a few certain meals that he couldn't resist the temptation of.

"Oh, _excellent_ idea, John." He pulled himself to sitting, and then shakily got to his feet. He bestowed a clumsy kiss on John's lips before ambling towards the bathroom. Small spots of blood had bloomed on his t-shirt where John's teeth had dug into the back of his shoulder. John regarded them with a not insignificant amount of gratification.

If he told anybody he knew about what he had just been doing for the last hour, not a soul would believe him. He chuckled to himself before following Sherlock into the bathroom.


	23. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst/Drama.

25 November 2013, 2am

* * *

Darkness. That was all John knew. There was silence, and he was aware only of the pressing black. It was quiet here. He existed in this liminal space for what could have been a millisecond, or an eternity.

 At some point, though, trickles of sound started weaving their way into his consciousness. Lowered voices, just a tangle of vowel sounds. He couldn't make out the words. Maybe there were no words. A steady, intermittent beeping tone. Something like shuffling footsteps. No voices any more. Rustling fabric. Still that beeping.

After sound, touch returned. He first felt a hot ache start at his right temple, and it bloomed outwards, creeping its way over his face, over his eye and up his scalp and over his ear, it was starting to throb. _Ow._ As his sense of feeling returned, rolling slowly down his body, he felt another throbbing pain at his jaw, then his shoulder, _fuck_ his shoulder really hurt, where he had been shot there was a relentless deep ache. His wrists burned, his ribs - _shit, that feels fractured -_ and his abdominals ached. He wanted to gasp or moan or make a sound, but he couldn't find a voice, couldn't open his eyes, couldn't move. His body was too heavy. _Where am I? What happened?_

He tried to remember why he felt like this. Wasn't he just at work? _Did something happen at the clinic? No, wait. I left the clinic._ He tried to pull up the memories, but it felt like trying to remember rapidly fading dreams. Thinking too much made his head hurt more. He was walking home. Black car. Mycroft's car. _I got into Mycroft's car._ _Did Mycroft do this to me?_ That didn't seem to make sense. _No, wait again._ Anthea hadn't been in the car. A bloke had been in the car. A bloke _with a gun_ had been in the car. His temple throbbed particularly strongly as he remembered being struck. _Ow. So that's why my head bloody hurts._

He didn't remember the car trip. He had woken hanging in the air. Wrists taking the weight, tied above head. _And that explains the burn._ Too high. Toes were just touching the ground. A sharp pain exploded from his fractured rib as he remembered the blow that had woken him. _Ah- fuck._ He had been defenceless, couldn't bring his arms down to protect himself. An unfamiliar voice had accompanied the blow. _"Where's Sherlock now, John?"_ Sherlock. _Sherlock. Jesus, where_ is _Sherlock?_

Heaviness be damned, he pulled his eyes open now. It felt like trying to pull a car with a finger, but he needed to find Sherlock. Dark, but still too bright. White and aqua blurred in front of him and the familiar sterile smell filled his nose. _This is hospital._ The colours hadn't yet resolved themselves into shapes when a voice sounded next to him. Brown entered the swirl of colours at the edge of his vision. Voice said something again. _I know that voice._ _I know that word._ The sound permeated his brain again, and this time it made sense.

"John."

The colours arranged themselves a bit better, and he realised he was in a bed, and the brown entity was Sherlock was standing next to his bed. _Okay. This is okay. Sherlock's here. I'm in bed. In hospital. Hospital's good._ And with that thought, he slipped from consciousness into the darkness again.

 


	24. Sebastian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst/Drama. Sebastian Moran. Protective!Sherlock. BAMF!Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains torture. Nothing sickening, but torture nonetheless. If you don't want to read this, skip to the end of the chapter for a clean summary so you can continue with the story.

24 November 2013

* * *

_"Where's Sherlock now, John?"_

His ribs cracked. A cry escaped his lips. A blonde-haired man swam into view. Fingers balled into a fist. Face too close. Bad breath. Breathing into John's open mouth. Tall. Suit. Dark room. Hard to tell where he was. Head hurt.

 _"Oh, don't be such a cry baby. Jim_ said _you were soft."_

_Jim? Moriarty? Shit. Shit, shit. How did he -_

A blow to his stomach winded him.

_Can't breathe. Shit, can't breathe. Need air._

_"You look a bit breathless there, Johnny. You alright?"_

The blue eyes were too close again. Leering. Even, white teeth.

_Gasp. Cough. Gasp. Air. Wrists burning._

He tried to toe the ground, support some of his weight with his feet.

_"Oh, no you don't, Johnny."_

The man pushed at his back, making him swing. Feet couldn't touch the ground. His arms felt like they were being pulled out of his shoulders. He cried out again. Swinging. Spinning. Dizzy.

 _"Who - who are you?"_ He pushed the words out in gasps.

 _"Sebastian Moran. Pleased to meet you. Finally."_ Moran was leering again. _"Do you know why you're here, Johnny boy?"_

Another blow, this time to his jaw. He tasted blood. He'd bitten his cheek.

_"No? No guesses?"_

Moran hit his shoulder this time.

_"Well, I'll give you a hint."_

Another to his shoulder. He couldn't hold in a whimper.

_"Sherlock's been a very naughty boy."_

Another to his shoulder. _Fuck._

_"He's put my Jim away."_

He held back the tears that were threatening to spill. _"Your - your Jim?"_

 _"I've become accustomed to a certain sort of lifestyle, John."_ He spoke with that same lazy lilt as Moriarty. _"As Jim Moriarty's second-in-command, you generally get any sort of lifestyle you like. Money. Power. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, to whomever I want. Or, I could-"_

Ribs.

_"-before-"_

Stomach.

_"-Sherlock and Mycroft decided to shut down our fun."_

Shoulder.

He couldn't hold back the tears now. They flowed freely, his autonomous response overriding his determination to stand up to Moran. Everything hurt. He tried to speak through the gasps and the sobs.

_"Why this? Why me?"_

_"Oh, Johnny boy, you're not very bright, are you?"_ Moran grimaced at him, a look of false pity on his face. _"If Jim's going down, if I'm going down, Sherlock needs to pay. I've only got so much time before they lock me up, too. I'm putting it to good use."_ He came close. Too close. His hand grasped John's throat. His other hand brushed through John's hair in a sick imitation of an intimate gesture. John's stomach rolled. Moran's mouth came to his ear. He couldn't move away, his arms prevented any movement. He closed his eyes. Everything hurt.

_"What do you think Sherlock will do, John? What'll he do when he finds you? Do you think he'll even recognise your face? I'll leave a little bit for him. I think he'll cry. How long do you think he'll cry for? An hour? A week? A year?"_

Moran pulled back, just a little. John kept his eyes shut.

_"Come on, Johnny boy. Open your eyes. I want to make sure you're feeling it."_

A minute shake of his head. He wouldn't do what Moran asked. Moran was just as deranged as Moriarty. His voice turned dark.

_"Johnny. John Watson. Open your eyes."_

His fingernails dug into John's face. John kept his eyes shut.

_"Johnny, if you don't open your eyes right now, I'll-"_

But John never heard what Moran would do. Instead, he heard a gasp then a sickening crunch, and the hand on his face tore away as something thudded to the ground near his feet. His eyes flew open. Sherlock was in front of him, chest heaving, an unbridled rage like John had never seen distorting his features. He didn't look human as he stood over Moran's body. John followed his gaze. He was accustomed to bad injuries, but the angle that Moran's head was sitting in comparison to his body made his stomach turn. His eyes were blank and staring. Broken neck.

_Oh my God._

_Oh my God._

_Oh, Jesus._

_Sherlock just killed him._

Sherlock looked up and met John's eyes. The rage slid from his features in an instant, leaving behind only a sickened, scared, worry. Sherlock had never looked like this before, either. John had never seen him look so terrified. Not when he thought John had betrayed him to get the Bruce-Partington missile plans. Not when he thought he had seen a giant monster dog in Dartmoor. Tears welled in the detective's eyes before he started forward and began to undo John's bindings.

_"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry."_

He felt Sherlock's arms encircle him as the ropes holding his wrists gave way and he started to collapse. His injuries were too painful. His vision was blurring again. He tried to say something, but the darkness claimed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you chose not to read this chapter, here's a clean summary: In a dream while he's unconscious in hospital, John remembers what happened to him. Sebastian Moran (Moriarty's second-in-command) wanted revenge on Sherlock for his part in bringing Moriarty's network down. Moran abducted John while on his way home from work and beat him. He would have beaten him to death if Sherlock hadn't found them and killed Moran, rescuing John.


	25. No Realm of Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drama. Feels. Fluff. Humour.

25 November 2013, 10am

* * *

When John awoke again, the world came back to him much more quickly than his first attempt. He blinked a few times. The light in the room was different. That same monotonous beeping - a heart rate monitor, he now realised. He still hurt, but it was duller. He managed a whisper.

"Sherlock?"

"John."

He tilted his head to the left a little, and his eyes found Sherlock sitting in a chair by his bedside. God, he looked terrible. He was still dressed in his suit and coat. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, and never mind pale - his skin looked positively _grey_. His dark curls hung lank over his face. Despite all this, a small smile reached his eyes when he saw John awake.

"You -" His voice was a croak, his throat dry as a crisp. He swallowed before trying again. "You look bloody awful."

Sherlock exhaled shortly through his nose and one side of his mouth pulled up into a half-smile - as close to a laugh as was appropriate for a hospital bedside when your partner had been beaten to a pulp. At any rate, he was clearly reassured by John's ability to curse. He raised his eyebrow at John in a look that said **_I_** _look awful? I should get you a mirror._ Instead, his lips twitched back down to a position of concern and he became serious again.

"I've been waiting for you to wake." His hand reached out to rest on John's. His thumb smoothed over the skin. It was comforting. This was more intimate than they had ever been without a closed door between them and the rest of the world. Neither of them was a fan of public displays of affection - and even then, it wasn't as though they were ever overly affectionate in private either. They were forty-ish-year-old men, for goodness' sake (not that anybody who looked at Sherlock would know it - the git still managed to still look about five years younger than he actually was). Occasional touches of fingers to hair or shoulders were about as lovey-dovey as it got. Then again, as John looked around slowly, he realised that they _did_ have a closed door between them and the rest of the world. He was in a private room. It seemed that Mycroft's name not only opened doors; it could close them too, if necessary.

"How long have I been out?"

"About fifteen hours. It's 10am," he paused. Concern wrinkled his usually smooth features and he studied John's face seriously. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've had the shit beaten out of me."

Sherlock grimaced, and silence fell between them. They sat like that for a few minutes, Sherlock's thumb still stroking the back of John's hand.

"Sherlock, how did you find me?"

Despite John's less-than-ideal state, Sherlock still couldn't resist rolling his eyes, although he lacked most of his usual attitude. " _Please_ , John, I've had the homeless network tracking your every move since this whole thing began. As soon as you got into that car, I knew."

"Moran said he wanted revenge."

"Yes. He knew he was due to be arrested. He knew he didn't have much time."

"And, er, I assume that it's all... been sorted?"

"Yes. I was careful. No physical evidence. Nobody can trace it back to me. You'll have to give a statement, of course, but you were unconscious the whole time so there's not much you can say, really, is there? I pulled in a favour from some of the homeless network. The police are currently looking for a six-foot dark-skinned bald man wearing a raincoat and jeans that some hobos apparently saw go into the building where you were about the time Moran was killed. Moran had enemies - I'm not surprised one of them was following him. The killer must have run away just before I found you." Sherlock's tone was pointedly normal, but it was clear what he was really saying.

Silence fell again. When John spoke next, it was a whisper.

"Have you ever done that before?"

Sherlock feigned ignorance, jerking an eyebrow upwards.

"Done what?"

John just raised his eyebrows. Sherlock relented.

"No."

 _"Sherlock,"_ John fixed him with as concerned a stare as he could pull together. "Are you okay? I mean, you killed a man. Snapped his neck. That's not something that just happens. It's natural to be bothered by it."

He knew the words brought back memories for the detective too. For a second, Sherlock even looked like he was tempted to say "Yes, but he wasn't a very nice man," just as John had the first time he killed for Sherlock, but he seemed to catch himself. His lips twitched as though he was trying not to laugh. _Not particularly bothered by it, then,_ John thought. Sherlock collected himself, then fixed John with a rare look of complete sincerity. That miniscule smile meeting his eyes again. His hand squeezed John's.

"John, there is no realm of hell to which I would not gladly travel for you."

 


	26. Not So Different

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humour. Domesticity. Sherlock's a domestic goddess. Molly/Lestrade. Protective!Sherlock. Mycroft feels. Fluff.

2 December 2013

* * *

One of the upsides of being abducted and having your ribs fractured is _definitely_ being able to pass on most of the household chores to Sherlock for a while. John had come to this conclusion the day he had returned home from hospital with strict instructions of rest and avoidance of all strenuous activity - which, of course, included carrying grocery bags, vacuuming, cleaning - pretty much anything that didn't include laying down or sitting still. At first, Sherlock tried to appeal to Mrs Hudson's motherly tendencies; but she laid down the law of 'landlady-not-housekeeper' and refused to do more than bring up a daily batch of biscuits and tea. This left Sherlock with the responsibility of preventing the mess and starvation that it was usually John's job to stave off.

"It'll do you good, dear, I think your mother has a lot to answer for," Mrs Hudson had chided with a little smile and a sideways wink at John.

"Yes, I know, I've got a list. Mycroft has a whole _file,"_ was the petulant response.

Despite Sherlock's reluctance, if he took to a task, he did so with complete focus. Not for the first time, he surprised John with his array of thus-far-hidden talents: it turned out that the detective had once been a _more_ -than-capable cook, but had deleted most of the relevant data since moving in with Mrs Hudson and John - as both of them were usually willing to either buy him food or do the cooking for him. Twenty minutes reading an old cookbook was all he needed to re-learn the necessary skills.

 

The day after John had returned from hospital, Greg dropped by 221B. He knocked on the door to the living room, Mrs Hudson having shown him in. John got gingerly to his feet from his armchair to greet him.

"Blimey, you took a beating," Greg took in John's bruises as they shook hands and winced in sympathy. "How you feeling?"

"Never mind the injuries, I'm bored as hell. I'm cooped up for a few weeks on doctor's orders until the ribs heal. Wouldn't mind a pint later this week, once I'm not feeling quite so shit."

"Sounds good. You wouldn't believe the week I've had -" Greg paused, looking around the living room. "Huh. I didn't think cleaning counted as rest. You really that bored already?"

"Eh?"

"I've never seen the place so clean since you moved in."

"Oh! No, it's Sherlock, he's had to take over the household chores since I can't, and he's actually better at it than me." John smirked and nodded towards to kitchen, where Sherlock was reading something intently on his phone in his right hand, and stirring a pot of soup on the stove with his left. To add to the already peculiar picture, Sherlock had borrowed one of Mrs Hudson's vegetable-print aprons (after deeming his lab coat too likely to be a biological hazard to wear while doing actual cooking) and donned it over his suit shirt and trousers. Greg's reaction was priceless. His jaw dropped open in disbelief, and he grabbed his phone out of his pocket and snapped a photo quicker than John knew was physically possible. The Yarders would get a kick out of this one.

"Look at you, Sherlock Holmes, domestic goddess!" His laughter startled Sherlock out of whatever he was reading. Sherlock scowled at him before returning his eyes to his phone.

"At least I've got someone to cook _for_ , Lestrade. I see that _your_ wife's still sleeping with the PE teacher."

 _"Sherlock!"_ John thought this was a low blow, but Lestrade laughed it off and sat down in Sherlock's armchair opposite John.

"And _I'm_ sleeping with Molly Hooper, as it happens."

John gaped, and Sherlock's cold facade shattered. He looked back up at Greg, his expression scandalised. Greg's face was unashamedly smug - partly, John reckoned, because he was finally getting some, and partly because Sherlock hadn't noticed.

 _"Molly Hooper?!"_ Sherlock was outraged, which of course just made Greg laugh more. Sherlock just stood there with his mouth hanging open, as though he was too furious to find words.

"Didn't see that one coming, eh?" Greg smirked. John didn't really understand why Sherlock seemed so upset - John hadn't _expected_ it, but it seemed overall to be a good thing. Greg had been down about his wife for ages, and maybe this would help Molly finally move on from Sherlock - because she was lovely, really, and deserved better than to be in love with a manipulative git that paid her no attention. _Hmm,_ John reminded himself, **_my_** _manipulative git._ Things had been a bit awkward with Molly since John and Sherlock had got together. She tried to act normal, but John could tell she still wasn't over Sherlock. _Well,_ he thought _, maybe she is now_. Greg could be just the thing she needed.

"Well, good. Good for you," he smiled at Greg and nodded his approval.

"Yes, it is _good for you_ , isn't it?" Sherlock stalked over to stand in front of Lestrade, his eyes narrowed with suspicion and his voice dripping with venom. Despite the bloody ridiculous apron and the spoon in his hand, he still managed to look intimidating. Lestrade was well practiced at dealing with Sherlock's moods by now, though, so he just raised his chin with a defiant grin. He even managed to imitate Sherlock's usual arrogant tone with his reply.

"Problem?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed impossibly more, his furious gaze unfaltering as though he were x-raying Lestrade.

"It might be good for you _, but is it good for her?"_

Oh. _Oh._ _Wow._ Sherlock was being _protective._ That was a first. _Well, not really,_ a little voice piped up in the back of John's mind. _He threw that American bastard out the window when he attacked Mrs Hudson. He rescued The Woman from execution in the Middle East. He snapped Moran's neck when he kidnapped me._ Maybe not a first, then. But - Molly? Sherlock had always treated her awfully (the incident at Christmas drinks that year still stuck painfully in John's mind). He was only nice to her when he needed something - why did he care so much about her all of a sudden? John was pulled out of his thoughts by the escalating argument in front of him.

"'Course it's good for her, what you talking about?"

"Ratio of dates-to-sexual encounters?"

"What?"

"How many times have you taken her out versus how many times you have had sex with her?" Sherlock was in full interrogation mode, now, but Greg wasn't having any of it.

"Why's that any of your business?"

"Of _course_ it's my business, you need to treat her properly- "

 _"Alright, now, girls, can we tone it down a bit?"_ They both turned to John as if they'd forgotten he was there. Sherlock huffed an angry sigh, but fell silent. He'd been unusually willing to do as John asked since he'd been kidnapped, and John had been taking full advantage of the situation - he didn't know if it'd last once he was fully healed.

"Sherlock, siddown and relax a bit," he ordered, and heaved himself out of his chair. Despite his foul mood, Sherlock offered John his hand and pulled him to standing. John indicated that Sherlock should sit where he had just vacated; if he was determined to interrogate Greg about his treatment of Molly, he should at least be sitting and not towering over him. Sherlock obliged, flopping down like a petulant teenager. John yanked the spoon from his hand and started towards the kitchen.

"John, you can't-"

"I'm hardly running a marathon, Sherlock, I reckon I can stir some soup for a bit. Now, you two sort this out civilly, _like grown-ups."_ He caught Greg's eye and they smirked at each other. It really was none of Sherlock's business, but - like John - Lestrade didn't mind humouring this mad bastard they had both come to love - albeit in different ways.

John retreated to the kitchen as Sherlock and Greg restarted the conversation at a more acceptable decibel level. He was glad to have something to do, really, even if it was just something as menial as making sure the soup didn't burn to the bottom of the pot. He flicked on the radio to see if anything interesting was on the news, but no luck - just the usual humdrum of politics and local stories.

Sherlock's questions started at the relatively reasonable end ("First date?", "How many times have you taken her to the pub, and how many have you taken her to dinner?", "Do you always ensure she gets home safely?"), but quickly ventured into the realm of total-invasion-of-privacy (From "How many dates did you go on before you had sex?", ranging to "Do you always reciprocate oral stimulation?") but Lestrade answered in good humour. _The things we do for Sherlock._ John shook his head.

 

When Sherlock was apparently satisfied that Greg was indeed treating Molly with proper dignity and care _(he's one to bloody talk)_ , he gave the other detective a curt nod of approval.

"Right, glad we've got that sorted. Am I free to move, now?" Greg rose from the chair and winked at John over Sherlock's head.

"Cuppa, Greg?" John offered.

"Nah, can't stay, actually, just wanted to pop by and see how you were doing - and of course," he turned back to Sherlock with a smirk, "be interrogated for half an hour about my love life."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and rose as well. He began to guide Lestrade to the door with unnecessary haste.

"Yes, I think it's time you scuttled back to the Yard. And next time you _pop by,"_ he said the colloquial words sarcastically, making it clear that he considered Greg unwelcome, _"do_ bring a case. I'll be done with Moriarty's prosecution within the month, and since John's in no fit state to be shagging me into oblivion any time soon, it won't be long before we'll need a case to occupy ourselves with." And with that, he closed the door in Greg's face.

He returned to the kitchen and hitched a mask of complete innocence onto his face in response to John's look of incredulity.

"What?"

"What was all that for?"

"All what?"

John tried a different tack.

"Well, firstly, why have you got a problem with him seeing Molly?"

Sherlock plucked the spoon from John's hands and steered him to a seat at the table before fetching bowls and a ladle from the cupboard. When he did speak, his tone was surprisingly sombre.

"Molly deserves to be treated well. I would loathe for a lover of hers to show her the same contempt that I have."

John's eyebrows shot up somewhere into his hairline.

"You're _admitting_ that you treat her badly?"

Sherlock paused his movements of ladling soup into the bowls, and John saw his shoulders move in a minute sigh.

"I... I was simply never interested in her, and I didn't want to give her false hope. I treat her the way I do because I think it is far crueller to let someone hope for what is never going to happen, than to make it clear that they shouldn't waste their time."

John was reminded of the time that Moriarty had posed as 'Jim from I.T.', and led Molly to believe they were dating as a ploy to visit Sherlock, pretend to be gay, and give him his number _(what a wanker, seriously, geniuses and their need for a bloody audience)_. Sherlock had (mistakenly, just to remind you, _he got it wrong)_ deduced that Jim was gay, and immediately and tactlessly told Molly to stop wasting her time on him. When John had scolded him then, too, he had responded that he thought it was the 'kind' thing to do.

John sighed. While Sherlock definitely understood emotions, he was rubbish at dealing with them. That's just how he was, and how he always would be.

"So does Greg meet your standards?" He said it as a half-joke - but undoubtedly, if Sherlock really did care about Molly, he would actually have a mental list of perquisites that any potential partner of Molly Hooper ought to fulfil.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure he'll be sufficient. High date:sex ratio, so I think we can safely assume that companionship is a significant factor in the relationship. And as far as I can tell, he's satisfying her sexually - I'll need to drop in to Bart's sometime soon to analyse her, though, in order to confirm that."

He turned back to John, and handed him a bowl before sitting down at the table himself.

"So if he's passed the test, why the hasty forced exit and unnecessary mentions of our sex life?"

He tasted the soup - pumpkin and carrot - and was relieved to find it was actually really good. _I wonder if I could convince him to keep doing a share of the cooking even once I'm better..._

"Well, don't want to let him get complacent. Negative reinforcement. Every time he does something to do with Molly that displeases me, I'll remind him of things he doesn't want to know about."

"And you complain about _Mycroft_ being an interfering git," John smirked at Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his mouth in indignation, but John reached across the table and patted Sherlock's hand.

 _"And it's not necessarily a bad thing,_ Sherlock, because although you two have funny ways of showing it, it means you both _do_ care about people. You're not so different. Maybe you know a bit how he feels, now, with your wanting-to-protect-Molly thing. He _does_ care about you."

Sherlock was silent for the rest of lunch. Thinking. Instead of returning to his desk to write more for the prosecution, he sat in his armchair for the rest of the afternoon. He didn't speak, and John didn't bother trying to talk to him. While the Holmes brothers had been working together these last months on toppling Moriarty's network, there had been at least an absence of open hostility - but that was about as friendly as it got between them. It was about time Sherlock and Mycroft sorted out this stupid sibling rivalry feud thing, and if Sherlock needed a while to think about it first, then so be it. He'd eventually come to see what was plain as day to John: Mycroft _cared_ about him. He wasn't just an overbearing, highly-qualified prat for no reason; he really did want what was best for Sherlock. And maybe Sherlock would come to realise that they weren't so different.

 

John settled himself onto the sofa with a book and his phone, and typed out a text to Greg.

_"Thanks for dropping by. Sorry about Sherlock. He's secretly pleased about you and Molly, but course you know that. J."_

_"No problem. It's funny, he's been banging on about Mycroft interfering in his life for years, but he's exactly the same. He's a right git, but he means well. ;-) G."_

_"Tell me about it. Friday sound good for a pint? J."_

_"Deal. G."_

 


	27. Partita No. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst/Comfort.

5 December 2013

* * *

 

Being kidnapped and tortured is not the sort of thing one generally laughs off. This might be obvious to most people, but John and Sherlock were in the habit of laughing off the sorts of things that would send most people to therapy. Shot a man to save your friend? Well, he wasn't very nice, after all. Girlfriend nearly gets speared by a load of gangsters? I  _promise_  the next date won't be like this. Get strapped up in Semtex? Don't rip my clothes off, Sherlock,  _people will talk!_

But Moran had been different. This had been well and truly too close to home. John hadn't really suffered nightmares since he'd moved in to 221B, but now he was haunted again by the sneering words.

**_Where's Sherlock now, John?_ **

In hospital, thankfully, Mycroft had been able to arrange a recliner for Sherlock to sleep on. He stayed every night and if John was restless in sleep, Sherlock would be there to wake him, to reassure him. He would hold his face, those sharp eyes probing his own with concern, and tell him it was okay,  _you're safe, now, John._ He would place a hand to John's heart and press firmly and gently, grounding him. He would take John's hand when he had settled again, and stroke it soothingly until John fell back asleep. This was Sherlock as tender and concerned as John had ever seen him. And while John appreciated being the  _receiver_  of care for once in his bloody life, it was  _weird._ It showed just how much Sherlock had been disturbed by it. That his personality around John had become positively doting (compared to a Sherlock whose ultimate act of devotion was to deign to allow John to rest his head in Sherlock's lap while reading) was to John, the biggest indicator of  _yes, this was definitely too close a shave._

John hoped the dreams would settle once he was back at home, but he was proven wrong - and he realised that it was going to take a bit longer than that to let go of the fear. And he had a feeling that the strong painkillers he was on weren't helping his overactive imagination. Every time, it was the same. A blow to the ribs and the realisation that he didn't know where Sherlock was.

**_Don't worry Johnny, Jim's looking after him. Do you know what Jim's doing to him?_ **

He tried to call Sherlock's name - but in the terrible way of dreams, he couldn't make any noise. He just struggled and gasped for air, trying to call out, and he didn't know where Sherlock was,  _he didn't know._

The days were fine. Daylight has a certain reassuring something about it. He knew the plan. He knew that Mycroft and Sherlock had it under control, and that not too long from now, Moriarty wouldn't be able to touch them again.

But the dark has a certain sinister something about it.

As much as he told himself every night before he went to sleep that they were one day closer to this whole bloody thing being done with, his slumbering mind had other ideas.

**_Where's Sherlock now, John?_ **

Sherlock. Sherlock!

_Sherlock!_

**_Don't you know, Johnny?_ **

Shit. Sherlock.  _Please, help me, Sherlock._

**_If I'm going down, if Moriarty's going down, Sherlock needs to pay._ **

His ribs cracked again. And again.  _And again._

Sherlock, help, please,  _please!_

John jerked awake, pulled out by his own voice finally cooperating and crying out.

He panted for a few moments before he rolled over, his hand reaching out in the dark to find the warm solidity of Sherlock's body. He kept reaching. And reaching.

And then he realised that the bed was empty, and his blood ran cold.

No.  _No._

 _Stay calm_ , he told himself,  _he's probably just taking a piss or something_. But he looked towards the bathroom door, and the light was off. There was no light coming from under the door to the hallway, either.

 _Oh, shit_. He was paralysed by fear. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't blink.

_Sherlock, where the fuck are you?_

A million scenarios ran through his head. Sherlock, lured out of the flat and into a black car.  _Sherlock, tied up and unable to defend himself. Sherlock -_

And then John heard it. Soft, at first. The gentle sound of bow on strings, drifting in from the other end of the flat. John recognised it immediately. His favourite, Bach's Partita #1. Not the most soothing piece as it was usually played, but Sherlock was not the average musician. Tonight, he did something to the tune that made it soft, malleable, gentle. And hearing that music untied the knot that had formed in his chest, melted the blood that had frozen in his veins.

Sherlock was here, and he was safe, and he was looking after him.

The music grew gradually clearer as Sherlock moved back towards the bedroom. He didn't stop playing to open the door - he just pushed it open with his back. And that, John now realised, was the reason he hadn't turned the lights on when he'd gone to fetch the instrument; so that he wouldn't have to interrupt his playing to turn them off again.

Sherlock saw that he was awake already, and came to sit down on the bed. He played for another twenty minutes, the whole way through the piece, and John could feel himself melting back into the mattress. He wanted to reach out and stroke his fingers over Sherlock's back, but he knew that Sherlock hated to be touched while playing.

When Sherlock drew the final note and placed the instrument down on the bedside table, he laid back down and faced John. One hand reached out and cupped John's face.

"Sorry. You woke before I started playing."

He must have heard the cry that had brought John back to reality.

"Did it help?"

John smirked, his mood vastly improved again. He was definitely going to get off these meds as soon as possible, these moods were far too variable.

"You  _know_ it did, you've been taking my pulse from my temple. I'm not a  _complete_  idiot. But yes, it helps."

Sherlock smirked right back at him, despite his slightly drooping eyelids. God, he looked tired. John realised that the detective hadn't had any nights of uninterrupted sleep since John had been kidnapped.

"I'll keep the violin in here, from now on."

"Huh. Maybe I should get kidnapped more often, if it merits a lullaby every night."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Hilarious. True comedy gold, John."

"Hey, you can't blame me for trying to  _crack_  a joke every now and then."

"Oh, for  _God's sake._  Go to sleep so that I can get some." Sherlock rolled onto his front. He placed his hand on John's chest, and the weight of it was comforting. John conceded that perhaps the ' _cracked_  ribs' --> ' _crack_  a joke' pun had been a step too far into the region of  _really_  bad puns. Maybe it was the painkillers talking.

"You're thinking too loud."

"Alright, alright, going to sleep, now."

"Please do."

"'Night, Sherlock."

"G'night, John."


	28. Still A Mystery, In The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humour. Fluff. Feels. Christmas at Sherlock's parents' house. Fluffy smut.

25 December 2013

* * *

An enormous red farmhouse wasn't entirely what John had expected of Sherlock's childhood home. 'Enormous', yes, but he had been thinking more 'enormous' in the sense of a grand white mansion with servants and butlers and things. So he was pleasantly surprised when the Land Rover that Sherlock had hired for the trip out to the country (John had rolled his eyes - it seemed that Sherlock liked his cars the way he liked his coats; far larger and more dramatic than necessary) pulled up to something that looked really rather homely.

Mr and Mrs Holmes were also not entirely what John had expected. As soon as Sherlock, Mrs Hudson and John set foot in the house, they were showered with warm greetings and hugs (hearing Sherlock say "Yes, hello, Mummy," in a tone torn between fondness, embarrassment and impatience had John suppressing a laugh). What struck John most was how perfectly _ordinary_ they both seemed. Mrs Holmes embraced John as though he were her own son and tutted and fretted over his recent injuries even through his reassurances that all was healing well (his injuries being what had brought them here in the first place - upon hearing the news of his close shave with Moran, Mrs Holmes put her foot down and _insisted_ they visit for Christmas so Sherlock's parents could meet John before somebody put a bullet in them both).

Sherlock had once described her to John as a mathematical genius version of Mrs Hudson, and John was surprised by the accuracy of that description. She was a bit plump with a kindly face and eyes precisely the same colour - whatever that colour was - as Sherlock. Eventually she let go of John with a pat to his cheek and moved on to greet Mrs Hudson. Mr Holmes started forward and shook John's hand.

"John! Good to _finally_ -" he looked over at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow, "-meet you." Glancing at Mrs Holmes, who was now animatedly talking to Mrs Hudson about the drive from London, he added in a sly undertone- "Complete flake, my wife - but happens to be a genius." And then he winked. _Oh, my God. He's a completely normal bloke._

When Mrs Holmes finally deemed them thoroughly greeted, she showed them in to the kitchen and Sherlock took John and Mrs Hudson upstairs to put their bags in their rooms. John was intrigued by the house. He counted a formal dining room and two sitting rooms before they reached the stairs, all decorated with numerous Christmas ornaments and tinsel and candles. All the rooms seemed to be different colours, too - the dining room walls were predominantly stone, one of the sitting rooms had red walls, and the other had green - and both with a fireplace, plush armchairs and lots of books scattered around. It was a far cry from the pristine white mansion that John had been expecting - _this?_ This was textbook English cosiness.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock stopped off at the first bedroom on the left and showed Mrs Hudson in. He then continued down the hall to another door on the right. A little wooden sign that said _Sherlock_ in neat hand-painted calligraphy hung on the front of the door. John was fascinated. This was Sherlock's childhood bedroom. While Sherlock had told him a bit about his youth, there was still so much John wondered; it escaped him how such an extraordinary man was formed.

Sherlock barged in without ado, swinging the suitcase up onto the bed (John was still enjoying Sherlock having to carry everything as his ribs weren't healed quite to the point where he was fully functioning again) and opening it to hang their clothes in the wardrobe. John took a moment to look around and take in the details of the space which Sherlock had called home for so long. The room wasn't massive, a bit smaller than their current bedroom in 221b. The walls were painted a deep navy blue over the roughly textured cob plastering. All his furniture was timber - looked like mahogany - and consisted of a queen bed (course he would've bloody had a queen bed even as a kid) , a desk and chair, a bookcase, and a wardrobe. The window looked out over the front yard and across the field. There wasn't much on the walls but for a few empty hooks - John suspected he had taken his wall decorations with him when he'd moved out.

John moved over to the bookcase. He'd been watching how Sherlock worked for long enough to know he could learn a lot from it. Sherlock loved books, always had - John should be able to tell at least something about his childhood from his books. John scanned each of the shelves.

"Very astute of you, John."

John turned to see Sherlock sitting on the bed - he had finished unpacking their suitcase. He was watching with a raised eyebrow and a small smile. John shrugged.

"Well, not exactly genius-level stuff, I'm just looking."

"Tell me what you see."

John turned back to the shelves. He crouched a bit, so that he was about the height of a ten-year-old kid.

"Well, when you were young, you liked adventure stories," he commented, scanning the titles at eye height - _Swallows and Amazons, Robinson Crusoe, The Chronicles of Narnia_ , that sort of thing.

"Yes..." His tone dripped with the _'obviously'_ he was dying to say and John practically heard his eyes rolling. "What else?"

John shifted his gaze up to the next shelf.

"Ah. Then Mycroft decided it was time to make an impression." This shelf was dominated by books that seemed to centre round the general topics of thought and logic, and all the titles were in alphabetical order. A few philosophical titles, and some ancient texts, too. Quite a lot of Goethe - who Sherlock still revered to this day. This shelf must have been curated about the time that Mycroft had decided to step in and start 'training' Sherlock in the most efficient ways to use his brain.

 _"Very_ good," Sherlock sounded impressed - perhaps he hadn't expected John to make that particular deductive leap to Mycroft's interference. John smiled to himself a little before moving on to the next shelf, now at his own head height - Sherlock must have been in his mid teens when he was reading these books.

"Hm - so here's where the intrigue in crime solving started." Here lived books that were diverse in topic, but all unmistakably relevant to crime (or the analysis and solving of it). Human anatomy and biology, chemistry, forensics, psychology, a few crime novels, some computer coding books, a bit of history. John actually recognised a few of the titles from around the flat.

"Huh. See you found some gems about this time, too."

"What do you mean?"

"Well you've got some of these at home, but the ones at home must be newer editions, otherwise why wouldn't you have brought these copies with you instead? So they must be good enough for you to bother to keep up with the newest editions."

All of a sudden, he felt lips on his neck, hands on his waist, and Sherlock's curls tickled his jaw. He jumped - the bed hadn't creaked when Sherlock climbed off it.

"Jesus, can you please not do that?"

Sherlock's reply was a little muffled.

"Hmm?"

"Move like a bloody cat, you'll give me a heart attack one day."

"Mmm." Sherlock clearly wasn't listening to what he was saying. His body lined up flush behind John's and his arms circled John's waist, a hand reaching down to rub over the doctor's crotch as his lips moved up his jaw.

"Oi! Out of it, we're at your parents house for Christmas lunch."

"We're in _my room."_ His voice was low and seductive. His tongue darted out to barely touch behind John's ear, and a shiver ran down John's spine.

 _"And they're waiting for us downstairs."_ John ground out through his teeth, grasping Sherlock's wrists and prying his arms from around him.

Sherlock huffed a longsuffering sigh and relented.

"Later, then. You're positively _inspiring_ when you're not being an idiot."

 

* * *

 

Mycroft arrived not long after Sherlock and John returned downstairs. John was again audience to the sight of a Holmes son awkwardly kissing his mother on the cheek, and he didn't think the novelty would wear off for a while. Anthea, for once, wasn't in tow - John had half expected her to be joining them, but it seemed Mycroft really was taking the day off - the only exception being the laptop he brought to the dining table with him.

John had never particularly enjoyed the scrutiny (does anyone?) of a 'meet-the-parents' occasion, but Mr and Mrs Holmes were - in stark contrast to their sons - entirely amiable.

Mrs Holmes nattered on about anything from their line dancing holidays to (when prompted by her husband) her work in thermodynamics. She was initially bashful ("Oh no dear, they don't want to hear about that, mathematics seems _terribly_ fatuous nowadays,"), but it only took a little encouragement from Mrs Hudson and John before she was launching into a full (and fascinating, as far as maths went) explanation of her research. Mr Holmes chimed in occasionally to finish her sentences, and by the end of lunch, John was completely charmed by the pair of them. However, if anything, he was even _further_ from understanding how Mycroft and Sherlock ended up being... well - Mycroft and Sherlock.

Some things, he supposed, had to be left to mystery.

 

* * *

 

"Now _take me,_ John, I've been thinking about it since we got here, it's the only thing that makes Mycroft bearable for extended periods of time."

John huffed a laugh and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair before raising an eyebrow. The afternoon and evening had been pleasant enough, by his standards - nothing near the bitter sibling rivalry he had been expecting. Sherlock and Mycroft had even gone outside together for a smoke after lunch - not that John approved, but perhaps it was the start of a reconciliation.

"Hmm. Let me know when I'm in a fit enough state to even carry a suitcase again, and _then_ I'll fuck you. Unless you want me to bugger up my ribs again-" he rolled over to his side so he was facing away from Sherlock, and rubbed up against him (they'd discovered spooning caused John's ribs the least discomfort),"- you'll have to be the one doing the taking if you want to get any tonight."

Sherlock sighed dramatically, but kissed the back of John's neck and reached for the lube.

\---

"What would you've done, Sherlock?"

 _"Ngh-_ Hmm?"

"If Moran killed me _-oh!-_ before you got there."

Sherlock stopped the slow roll of his hips and detached his lips from the back of John's neck.

"John, I'm not sure dirty talk's _quite_ your thing." He managed to sound sarcastic, breathless, and confused all at the same time.

John snorted, but lowered his voice to something softer.

"No, I mean it. I want to hear what I mean to you. Come on, indulge me. It's Christmas."

Sherlock sighed into the back of his neck, which turned into a little gasp when John kissed the inside of his wrist. John reached back and pressed him forward softly again, so that he was still moving inside him, but slow enough to allow conversation. They never talked all that much during sex (other than the sort of communication that didn't actually require the English language), but John thought that the physical abandon might allow Sherlock to open up a bit. They'd been through a lot this past while, and he felt like there were things they didn't usually say aloud that needed to be said.

Sherlock grunted a little as he obliged and started rolling his hips slowly again, taking John in hand. John had to work hard to keep his voice steady, and it didn't work. He didn't think he would ever get tired of these sensations.

"Tell me- tell me why you'd miss me if I weren't here."

"Well - _ngh_ \- your _delightful_ arse, for a start-"

"Oi!" John chuckled, and Sherlock did too before speaking again.

"Your companionship, obviously."

"What about it?"

"You're above average intelligence, and of relatively quick wit, which I appreciate. You're exceedingly patient." John loved hearing his voice a little strained like that, especially when it was delivering compliments.

"Mmm." He reached up and back and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, tugging a little. The touch seemed to coax something out of the detective.

"Your - your compassion astounds me. You have no idea-" he broke off, seeming to catch himself.

"What?" John encouraged him, slipping his fingers back just to slide gently between the dip between Sherlock's arse cheeks, teasing over his entrance. Sherlock let out a small, surprised moan and he pushed himself deeper into John. _Oh, dear lord._ John wasn't going to last long like this. When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was quieter, but more intense.

"You've no idea how many times you've saved me, John. It's always you. You are the - the bravest and the kindest and the - _ngh_ \- wisest human being I have ever known." He seemed to be building courage, now, gaining momentum. John could feel his forehead pressed into the nape of his neck and his breath puffing hotly over his back. His hips increased their rhythm.

"It's - I never thought - _hngh_ \- I never expected to be loved, John. It's just you." Sherlock's voice was rough and he was panting now, his rhythm deep and steady. His left arm had snaked under John's body and was holding him close, his fingers splayed over John's chest and digging into the muscle. His body was pressed flush against John's back and he was hitting John's prostate with every thrust, _oh, God._ It was achingly intimate, even more so because of how vulnerable Sherlock was allowing himself to be. John could feel himself getting close, but he tried to hold off his orgasm until Sherlock was finished saying what he needed to. The sensations and the emotions were almost overwhelming, and he couldn't stop the moans from escaping him.

"You are - you are the only person I have ever truly-" he was interrupted by a whimper, and John knew he was right on the edge too, "-I never expected to - to love someone. But _I love you, John,"_ the words were heavy with emotion that even John was rarely privy to. _"I love you - oh, God, John - I love -!"_ his words were choked off as he came with a broken groan, shuddering deep inside John and holding him close. The feeling of Sherlock's climax shuddering through his body and the words that John had been longing to hear finally falling from Sherlock's lips pushed John over the edge, too. He moaned Sherlock's name as he came, spurting hot and wet over those long, elegant fingers and pushing back onto him, this mad, inexplicable man that he loved. It seemed to go on forever, as wave after wave rattled through them.

Eventually, they stilled. They were still panting as Sherlock pulled out slowly and rolled onto his back. John turned to face him and collapsed with his head on Sherlock's shoulder, still shaking a little with the aftershocks. Sherlock's arms encircled him and held him tight. When John glanced up to look at Sherlock's face, he saw tear tracks running down the detective's cheeks. His eyes were closed and his head angled back as he breathed heavily, little keening sounds leaving him with every exhale. John had never seen him so vulnerable, and he felt a lump rise in his own throat. That had been the most intensely emotional sex he'd ever had, and he felt simultaneously joyful and wrung out.

They stayed like that for some time, both allowing their breathing rates to return to normal. John was the first to move. He turned and placed a kiss to Sherlock's clavicle, to which Sherlock didn't respond. Then he moved down to his nipple, which he knew would elicit a response. Sure enough, when John's lips made contact, Sherlock bucked and gasped and opened his eyes, no doubt oversensitive. When his gaze met John's, John came up to kiss him, soft and slow. Neither of them closed their eyes.

He came up for air and he held Sherlock's face, memorising the way he looked right now. Open and honest and _in love_. Those not-quite-grey-not-quite-green eyes searched his own with a look of wonder.

"God, I love you." He pressed his lips to Sherlock's again. This stuff wasn't easy for him, either, but Sherlock deserved to hear it, so he rode the endorphins in his bloodstream and let the words flow. "I love you. You are mad, and brilliant, and you make me happy like nobody else has ever managed. _I love you."_ He kissed Sherlock again, and then, out of nowhere, he couldn't stop himself laughing.

This - _all of this, my whole bloody life_ \- was hilarious. Ridiculous. Incredible - nigh-on impossible. Brilliant. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve this, but he was _happy._ He felt the familiar rumble roll through Sherlock's chest, too, and knew he felt the same. They gave up on kissing, and just lay next to each other, laughing until their sides hurt. And then they laughed some more, because every time they made eye contact they started giggling again. It was ridiculous, and they didn't usually let themselves act like such sickeningly lovestruck teenagers, but tonight it was _right._

That night, for the first time, they slept with limbs entangled. Sherlock's leg wrapped around John's and John's arm draped across Sherlock's chest. Their fingers entwined and they shifted and muttered in sleep, nudging each other into more comfortable positions. Sherlock awoke with a sore neck and John with a cramping back, but they awoke together - and that was enough.


	29. Nicely Played (The Final Problem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot. Angst/Drama. Moriarty.

 30 January 2014, 11am

* * *

Normal circumstances did not apply in this situation. While Sherlock had always treated Mycroft's position with vitriol, the elder Holmes had proven to be an indispensable ally over the past year.

His effectively complete power within the borders of the United Kingdom had made Moriarty's downfall possible. Of course, it was not just for Sherlock's benefit. Mycroft would never bend as many rules as he had just on the basis of Sherlock's whim. In matters such as this - where Moriarty was a threat to not just Sherlock and John, not just to London, not just to England, but to every country on the planet - extreme measures were called for. And this was the most extreme thing that Mycroft had ever used his powers to do.

The question that had arisen in the early stages of planning this operation over a year ago was  _what was to be done with Moriarty once the courts had finished with him?_

The charges against him would amount to life in prison, there was no doubt about it. However, what prison could hold him? There was no facility in the world that could stop him from being a threat to anybody (or  _everybody_ ) outside its walls. There was no doctor, no psychiatrist that could persuade him to change. While he had access to  _any_ human being, he could threaten, manipulate, rebuild his power. Sherlock knew this better than anybody else, and Mycroft didn't take much persuading.

So, the answer was obvious: James Moriarty had to die.

Which caused the absolutely not normal circumstances in which Sherlock, John and Mycroft now found themselves. If Moriarty was going to die, nothing could be left to chance. As few people as possible had to be involved, and only a very select few could be trusted.

Initially, they had considered having Moriarty taken to Belarus: the last place in Europe that still practised the death penalty. That idea was dismissed quickly; far too much paperwork and far too many variables to be sure of a safe outcome. No. It was imperative that Moriarty travelled as little distance and came into contact with as few people as possible. In the controlled environment of his current prison, Sherlock and Mycroft could ensure that Moriarty had no opportunity to manipulate or form contacts, to scheme, to work a way out of this. He must remain here and he must die here.

The execution itself was to be performed by lethal injection. Mycroft arranged all the necessities months in advance. Sherlock, John and Mycroft would be witnesses to it. They had to ensure that it was done properly. They could not trust anyone else to verify the process. While miniscule, there was still a chance that Moriarty may have planned a way out of this. So, they would all witness it. An executioner hand-picked by Mycroft would perform the procedure. John would examine the body and confirm death. They would keep the body under scrutiny for three hours, and repeat the procedure with another separate executioner, again chosen by Mycroft. John would then re-examine the body and re-confirm death. The two executioners were the only people outside of the Holmes brothers and John to have any involvement in his death. Molly Hooper would then come to take the body to Bart's mortuary, the body would be destroyed, and James Moriarty would be no more.

 

* * *

 

The guard opened the door to Moriarty's cell. Sherlock followed Mycroft in. Moriarty was lying on the bed on his back. He continued to stare at the ceiling as he spoke, a smile playing about his lips.

"Nicely played,  _Misters Holmes."_

He sat up without looking at Sherlock or Mycroft, placing his elbows on his knees, and he looked at the floor as though in a state of deep contemplation. Eyebrows frowning, eyes vacant, lips slightly parted. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but Moriarty interrupted him with his lazy drawl.

"You know, I never planned on growing old." He didn't move, but his eyes swept up to meet with Sherlock's. He was nearly impossible to read. His face hung slack but his eyes were wide and burning.

"People get  _boring_  when they get old."

He fell silent, still staring at Sherlock. Sherlock held his gaze, keeping his own expression unreadable. Mycroft took Moriarty's silence as his cue to speak.

"Mr. Moriarty, you are due to be executed at 12pm today. This is your chance to make any final requests or say any final words. After this, you will be taken from this cell for the last time and to the execution room for the procedure."

Moriarty's eyes fell to the floor again. He ran a hand through his hair. He sighed.

"You solved it, boys. The final problem."

A deranged grin crossed his features. His eyes became unfocused and he looked between the brothers with what could only be described as adoration.

"Thank you.  _Bless you."_


	30. Four Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um. So. Moriarty dies. Does it count as Major Character Death if it's semi-canon? I'm not going to put it down as MCD, but you've been warned.

30 January 2014, 8pm 

* * *

 

Sherlock, John, and Mycroft stepped out of Bart's Hospital. Mycroft's car was waiting, but both of the Holmes' immediately reached for their pockets and pulled out a packet of cigarettes in synchrony.

John was tempted to laugh, but he felt so strung out after the events of the day that he could only manage a weak snort.

That was it. Jim Moriarty was dead. Definitely, unmistakably dead. His heart had stopped beating seven-and-a-half hours ago, and his body had just been cremated. His ash now sat in a cardboard box, which would be buried without ceremony. He couldn't hurt any more people. He couldn't break any more hearts. Four years to the day since John has first heard that infernal name, and it was finally all over.

He didn't know what came over him, but suddenly he reached out and plucked Sherlock's cigarette from between the detective's fingers and took a drag himself.

Sherlock smirked and looked at John sideways. "Don't take up smoking, John. It  _really_  doesn't suit you."

John chuckled. "Nope, that's all I needed. That'll last me the rest of my life." He handed the cigarette back to Sherlock and chuckled.


	31. A Good Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst/Drama. Feels. Fluff. Smut. More fluff.

30 January 2014, 11pm

* * *

John and Sherlock lay in the silence and the darkness of the flat, facing each other. Neither were likely to sleep for a while. Sherlock's mind was still racing through the events of the day. His habit of constant vigilance (bordering on paranoia) that had developed over the last fourteen months wouldn't leave without a fight. He kept repeating that short conversation in Moriarty's cell in his head, analysing, re-analysing, filing all his own different interpretations in the cabinet labelled _"Moriarty, James: Death"_.

There was one fact that was indisputable, though.

"Moriarty wanted to die."

John, who had been watching Sherlock in silence for over an hour now, jumped slightly when he spoke aloud, clearly startled out of his own thoughts. He frowned.

"He _wanted_ to die?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"He was bored. I've told you before that breaking rules is too easy. There's only so far you can go before you've broken all of them and there's nothing left to do."

John frowned at him, his expression doubtful.

"Oh, _please_ , John, you know exactly what I mean. You've been going mad, since we stopped taking cases and especially since your ribs have been healing. The monotony has been driving you to distraction."

"Well, yeah, but not enough to want to die. I mean, I've always known it's temporary, we can take cases again now that it's all over."

 _"Exactly._ Moriarty couldn't rely on other people to keep him busy like you and I can. We just wait for a case to come to us. He had to _make_ the cases. There's only so much scheming one can do before you begin to repeat yourself. Lose motivation. When I first met you, you were in an awful state," he fixed John with a serious look. "You had no plan, _yet you still had your gun, John."_

John's expression changed. They hadn't really spoken about this before. It had been silently understood, but never more than that. Life had moved on. There hadn't been a reason to discuss it until now. John swallowed. He stayed silent for a while, and Sherlock gave him the time to think.

"Well. Yeah. I guess so. But I don't think I'd ever have _actually_ done it. I don't think I'd ever have actually killed myself. I suppose I was just hoping something good would come along, and it did, I moved in here." He paused again, and frowned. His voice became small. "Actually, I dunno if I'd be alive if I hadn't run into Mike in the park that day. Maybe if something bad had come along instead, it would have been enough to make me do it."

Sherlock's hand found John's beneath the covers and he entangled their fingers - a safe bet for providing comfort. He had never been much good with sympathy, but for John at least, he wanted to try. He waited a few minutes before speaking again.

"I think Moriarty was the same. He never would have killed himself unless driven to. We took that choice out of his hands. He said we solved the final problem for him. _Staying alive."_

"Jesus."

Silence fell between them again. John was the one to break it. His tone was lighter now, and a little smirk played about his lips.

"You're bloody _sad_ he's gone, aren't you?"

Sherlock looked away. Something told him it was a bit Not Good to be bothered by the death of an insane (but genius) criminal mastermind, especially if said death was what one had been working purposefully towards for over a year.

"No, I'm not."

"You said that too quickly."

"No, I didn't."

"That too," John laughed.

"Oh, shut up." He huffed and rolled over so that he had his back to John. He immediately felt John's fingers run up and down his spine. The fingers trailed low enough to brush just below his tailbone. Definitely suggestive.

"Look, think of it this way, now you get to find yourself a _new_ arch enemy."

Sherlock hummed lowly, more in response to John's fingers than to John's words.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, and they were a mess of soft moans and tender touches. John was rocking into him slowly but deeply, every thrust making Sherlock's head spin. This was his favourite way to make love; face-to-face. This way he could watch John lose himself in Sherlock just as he was losing himself in John. They shared tender kisses and caught each other's gasps and sighs and moans. John changed the angle of his hips, and _oh!_ That familiar jolt of electricity ran up Sherlock's spine, making every nerve in his body sing.

His fingertips traced a familiar path; from John's hairline down to hold his face, then to rest in the hair behind John's ears as his thumb stroked over the cheekbones for a while. John's pupils were wide and dark and drinking in Sherlock's own. He wrapped his legs tightly around John's hips, holding him tighter, letting him in deeper. John moaned and kissed him fiercely, their tongues sliding together and groans echoing in each other's mouths, and John's rhythm increased to something more desperate.

Sherlock's left hand fisted in the sheets - what he really wanted to do was hold John's ribs, but he wasn't willing to risk aggravating the recently-healed injury - and his right traced down John's throat, fingers tracing his clavicles, and finally came to rest on his chest. He had discovered in the last few months that feeling the rhythm of John's life beating beneath his fingers produced a fierce physiological reaction.

Sure enough, his head jerked back on the pillow involuntarily and a shudder rolled through his body as his fingers found John's heart. He felt his orgasm coil low, and he needed John _closer, deeper, more, John,_ and he could feel that John was getting close too, his heart thudded against Sherlock's fingers faster and harder like the rhythm of his hips, and he was moaning Sherlock's name, and _oh, John, I-_

He came with John's name on his lips, a choked-off groan, and felt John's rhythm stutter too, and they were both shuddering and gasping and holding each other close as John spilled his release in Sherlock and Sherlock spilled his between their bodies.

Sherlock always treasured this. These moments during and after sex, where they were both laid bare for the other. The only time he let his emotions completely rule him. He held tight to John's shoulders as the doctor collapsed, letting himself drape over Sherlock's body. They both disregarded the slick mess between them.

"John."

"Mmm?" John nestled his face in Sherlock's neck.

"I... I know I don't say it often, but-" he paused, grimacing. He had spent his life having Mycroft training him to rid the self of emotions, and it made it difficult to say some things out loud. In the last fourteen months with John, he had managed to break down a lot of those walls - sex had been the first, then kissing and other general touches of affection, but words? Admitting such weaknesses - _Shut up, Mycroft, it's not a weakness_ \- out loud was still difficult.

Of course, John knew exactly what he was trying to say.

 _"Go on,"_ John prompted him after a few seconds, a smirk in his voice.

"I _do_ love you," he paused, silently pleased with himself - the same way he was pleased with himself when he managed to resist a cigarette. John kissed his neck.

"Thanks for saying it. I love you, too."

"And if there was no other reason that I was glad Moriarty is dead, I would be satisfied knowing that he can no longer target you."

John made a pleased sort of noise and reached over to grab some tissues from the bedside table. He cleaned up the mess they had made, and rolled off Sherlock to lie beside him. His eyes were closed now as he spoke. Sleep was closing in.

"It's good to know that he can't hurt anyone else. You've done a good thing, you know."

Sherlock snorted.

"I do lots of good things."

"Yeah, but usually you're solving a murder. This was saving lives. _Lots_ of lives."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to make a gratified noise as he reached down to pull the covers over them both. John's voice was slurring with sleep. He never stayed awake long after orgasm.

"You know, Greg once said you were a great man, and maybe one day you'd be a good one," his voice drifted off and he was silent for a minute. Sherlock glanced over at him, and saw the doctor's face was slack with sleep. He was about to roll over and succumb to sleep himself, but John started awake again and his hand found Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed clumsily.

"I reckon you're a good one."

 


End file.
